Reset
by Margaret Smoke
Summary: Oswald's got a badge, a best friend, and maybe, the love of his life. Except this isn't his life. With Gotham gone topsy-turvy, he turns to the only man he trusts: Jim Gordon. Only Jim's changed too—he's the King of Gotham. With false memories of this world growing stronger, Oswald must find the source of this reality before he loses himself—and the man he trusts—forever. Gobblepot
1. not dead

**Disclaimer:** _Gotham_ is copyright its respective creators and license holders, etc. This is a transformative fanwork written for non-commercial purposes, and it was approached as an educational exercise.

Part of Gobblepot Gazette's Gobblepot Spring 2017 event (prompts: "free space" and "new beginnings").

This story was written in its entirety, and should not be considered a WIP. Chapters will be released periodically, with the final chapter released at the end of hiatus.

This is a canon-divergent fic. Spoilers for the mid-season finale of season 3.

* * *

Reset

by Margaret Smoke

* * *

chapter 1: not dead

* * *

"Wake up, Penguin."

At the sound of her voice, I jerked into something soft and dry. I drew in my first sharp breath in eons, the air burning and raking a throat once consumed by the filthy waters of the harbor. A droplet of saliva caught somewhere between lung and tongue turned my unsteady breaths into hot coughs. Embarrassing.

"Whoa, hey, Os, are you okay?"

My eyes shot open, but not before lashing out with a surprisingly dry arm and thwacking Barbara Kean in what I hoped was some tender part of her traitorous skull. Of all people to wake up to after being…after being…shot?!

Barbara rubbed her shoulder where my wrist had landed. "Ow," she murmured. "Some kind of bad dream?"

I flexed my aching wrist, taking deep breaths of leather. I hated the smell, sometimes, hated how you were supposed to pretend to love it just because it was more opulent, when it would forever just be the tanned skin of a dead animal. Despite a lifelong envy of the rich and powerful, I could never erase the deep hatred I held for each and every one of them. I turned away from the sofa, eyes falling on a coffee table holding two empty wine glasses with red pooled where stem held bowl. I wondered if the wine smelled of leather too. Winemakers certainly loved their odd flavors—leather, tobacco, petroleum. From here, over the harsh scent of the couch, I could tell that this wine had been jammier, more fruitful. My kind of wine—the kind of wine that still tasted remotely like the grapes it was made from.

"Os?" Barbara beamed softly at me, her curls framing her face, the rest of her dressed as expected, in fine, stylish fabrics cut perfectly for her shape. It became apparent she'd stopped in the midst of her morning routine to harass me. "Come on, Little Penguin. Wakey wakey."

"Why are you being so gentle?" I said, watching her eyes flit over my aching body. Her brows were creased in confusion, and a slight blush crossed her creamy, peach face, but she was otherwise unfazed by our interaction, and those eyes, those _damn_ eyes, so wicked when I last saw them, now held torrents of care.

Barbara merely arched over me more, and booped me on the nose with a single finger. The _nerve_! The pleasant perfume on her wrist pervaded the air, momentarily ridding me of the stinky leather. She smirked, then lay back on the sofa in her…was this her place? Her _first_ place? "Your phone's dead. Your alarm never went off. You're going to be late."

I shot up, expecting to wince at an injury I thought I'd sustained, but instead I winced at the glaring morning light coming through the large window. At the other end of the sofa, Barbara poked the bottom of my purple-and-black socked feet, then grasped an open box of sugary cereal and shoved her manicured hand in. Yes, this was Barbara's old place, where I'd first met her. Perhaps, to some degree, this was that same Barbara.

"I'm not dead?" I wondered.

"No. Not unless your captain has a mean streak." She offered the box to me, then sucked in a hiss. "Ow, you really hurt me, Pengy. Did I do something nasty to you in that dream or what?"

"I…" Wasn't _this_ the dream? "I thought you were someone else. I'm sorry."

She gave the box another shake. "You need to go, and I need to do my hair." I never took the box, so she retracted it, then gave my toes a… _loving_ wiggle. "Come on. Up. I'll get your badge, but I'm not touching that gun."

I gaped at her. "My…what?"

* * *

The Gotham I knew was gray, as gray and blurred as an old black and white film, whereas this Gotham—and the pleasant Barbara Kean in the driver's seat beside me—were like the land of Oz, full of color and bizarre happenings.

For instance, the doorman to Barbara's building, Mr. Yearling, was actually Mick the Stick, a low-level grunt who'd been beaten with a literal stick by a former boss for holding a door open on the _wrong_ side.

For instance, the badge on my belt and the registered gun holstered at my side were not actually mine, but here, they were.

For instance, this best-friend level of intimacy Oz-Barbara and I seemed to share, but in reality did not. It hadn't been entirely easy to lie my way through the morning while I figured out just what the hell was happening. I hated Barbara. Particularly for the role she played in me getting shot by someone I loved and then dumped in the harbor.

For instance, this particular stretch of road lacked its usual graffiti and crime-scene tape, and instead was deemed a very safe stretch of road by Barbara. She had no trouble finding a parking space, and she pulled over before stepping out of the white sedan and passing me the keys.

"Try to use Butch's car for any high-speed chases with bad guys, okay?"

I swallowed the surprisingly fresh air and took the keys from Barbara, who'd styled her curls into a professional, yet hip updo befitting the art gallery only a handful of feet away. Butch. _Butch_. From the serious look in Barbara's eyes to the twitch of a smirk on her lips, I got the sense that this had happened before. With _Butch_. My…partner? "Yes, ma'am."

She gave a quick groan and rolled her eyes. " 'Ma'am'? Since when do you say ma'am?" Before I could reply, she gave me a quick shrug and kissed me on the cheek. "See you later. Love you."

My hand clenched around the cold keys, its sharp ridges digging into my palm. "Yes, love you too."

I sat in the car and waited for Barbara to get inside before frantically digging out a phone that I didn't remember giving my thumbprints to. I started the car, plugged in the low-battery phone, and fiddled with the console until ice-cold air blasted my face and neck. It came with a rush of dust and Barbara's unique, flowery perfume, neither of which comforted me. I groaned and activated the dictation on the phone with a blasé landscape set as a wallpaper. This was not my phone. And I would never choose that wallpaper.

"Take me to work," I ordered the phone.

It responded robotically, " 'Take Me To Church' is a song by—"

I slammed my finger on the phone and re-dictated the order. "Take me to _work_."

"Starting route to 'Work.' In five-hundred feet, turn left on Broadway Avenue."

I set the phone in the passenger seat and drove through familiar, slightly altered neighborhoods, until arriving at Jim Gordon's home precinct. He would know what to do about this. I only hoped he would believe me.

This vintage palace of Art-Deco and Gothic fusion hadn't changed a bit, that is, with exception to the serious lack of my old friend. Instead, the nameplate on Jim's desk read "Det. Oswald Cobblepot." _Wonderful_. At least I knew how to think like a criminal. I looked about for a coat rack, then begrudgingly slung my coat on the back of a worn thing that qualified as a desk chair. It was an uncomfortable beast, with a fussy wheel and a lump that dug into my thigh.

The place was not absent the odd looks I usually received upon arrival, but their motivations were different. I had seen those kinds of looks in my youth. I grumbled and poked through Jim's— _my_ desk, trying to make sense of whatever life I had fallen into.

A file fell from the sky like a raindrop, its storm cloud my stocky, round-faced partner, Butch Gilzean. Butch mumbled a greeting through the pink-frosted doughnut hanging out of his mouth, and as he flicked a sprinkle off the side of his peach face, I was reminded of Detective Harvey Bullock. I scoffed inwardly at the universe's unusual sense of humor. Perhaps there was a well-groomed Bullock looming beside a mob-boss somewhere, using glares and cracked knuckles to remind some lackey how they kept the peace.

I turned on my inner thespian, and casually asked, "What's this?"

"Same old shit," said Butch. "Guy kills his girlfriend with a registered gun, goes on the run. Thinking we need to visit the family, use some of your magic on 'em to get 'em to talk." He polished off the doughnut and wiped his fingers on one of many napkins stacked neatly on the corner of his desk. "While we're at it, you can use that magic on our asshole mayor who keeps his mouth shut on DV issues."

"You? An advocate for smarter gun control?"

Butch's face dropped. "Are you serious? Were you even listening the other night?"

Woops. "Of course," I said. "You know me and my sarcastic jokes." I tittered for effect, and Butch just rolled his eyes and turned his attention toward his computer. I flipped open the file. The person of interest looked like…someone I'd seen here before. Thomas Dougherty. I winced at the photographs of the body—so cruel, some killers—then blanched as I read the victim's name: Kristen Kringle. I turned to the next page quickly, and it responded with a sharp paper cut. "No addresses for his family?"

"Workin' on it, Os, gimme a sec."

Didn't detectives have lackeys for this sort of thing? Well, Butch had always been a lackey himself. Never could take the lead properly. I shuffled through the file, then stared at my computer, which begged for my login credentials. I typed my mother's first name into the password field and got in. Some things didn't change. I sank back into the uncomfortable chair with relief. I wasn't great with computers, but given time, I could figure out how to run a few searches on Ed and Jim and see what the hell was—

"God damn carpal tunnel," Butch cursed, rubbing his wrist. Well, that was interesting. Butch had both hands. I still bore the injury Fish Mooney had given me, but I'd made my peace with it long ago. Perhaps whatever had happened here preyed upon some aspect of our psyches. "How the hell's a guy supposed to hold a gun when he can barely use a computer?"

"I…I don't know," I said. "Perhaps look into your, _our_ , benefits. Maybe you can _squeeze_ some better equipment out of someone."

Butch pshawed and shook his head. "Yeah. Right." He returned to his careful computer work, and I placed my attention back into the file.

A detective. At Jim Gordon's desk. With Butch as my partner. So if I were Jim Gordon, did that make Jim me? I smirked devilishly. Just what _would_ Jim Gordon's criminal empire look like, given whom he was?

I lifted my phone, irritated at the length of its charger's cord, and scrolled through my contacts. Did I really _need_ all these numbers? Who were half these people anyway? A few familiar names crossed my path. Barbara. Butch. No. Not that letter either. No Gordon. A John in the Js. No Penguin, though Barbara had called me that earlier this morning, so I'd retained that lovable/hatable name.

Barbara. Horror crossed my face.

"Am I dating Barbara?"

"Huh?" Butch said with a casual grunt. "When did that happen?

"I…just overheard some of the fellas in the…locker room the other day. Wondering. Is all."

Butch furrowed his brows and leveled a gaze at me. "You feelin' alright, Os?"

 _Os. Oz._ No, I was not feeling alright at all. "It's nothing." I patted my neck like a showman and gave a brief smile. "Just woke up with a stiff neck."

"Sounds more like you woke up with a stiff drink."

I gave him a playful shrug. "If only."

Butch shook his head and grinned. "Speaking of stiffs and drinks…maybe you oughta head over to the ME's lab, get a little spring in your step before we head out today? Know what I mean?"

The _medical examiner_. Did I not bother bringing water to my desk? My tongue turned to sandpaper. I needed to drink something before I passed out right here in front of everyone who hated me already.

Butch caught my distress. "Or…maybe things aren't going so smoothly?"

"Right, the uh, ME. Visit. You know, I really should help _you_ work _here_."

Butch nodded knowingly. "I got you. Forget I—"

My desk phone rang. We stared at it through two more rings before I picked it up. "Hello? I mean, this is Cobblepot. Detective Cobblepot." Butch gave me a peculiar look and I shook my head.

"Detective. I mean, Detective Cobblepot. Oswald."

 _Edward Nygma_.

I barely caught the rest. I hung up the phone, my eyes wide, and I looked at Butch as if I were watching a movie about our lives in this moment.

"That one of those freaky possessed phones or something?" he asked. "You look like you've seen a ghost. You're pale as shit, partner."

"The, uh, that was the ME," I stammered out like a fool, and Butch nodded, mistaking my shaky words for something far less nefarious than fear. "He has, um, something to talk about, with a case. The—"

"The Banks?"

"Yes, the Banks." I was unsure if we were talking about buildings or people. "I have to go to him."

Butch laughed like this were the latest piece of juicy office gossip, and not a possible confrontation with Edward Nygma. The man I loved. The man who shot me in the stomach and left me for dead. The last man I had seen before waking up in Oz.

"Go, you idiot. I've got this. Just don't take forever."

I gripped the arms of my chair until my knuckles turned bone-white. I finally found the steel I needed, and lifted myself from the now-quite-comfortable chair, only I had no idea where to go.

Butch pointed, thinking this momentary lapse of memory to be something adorable and mockable.

I walked the hallways, breathing air laden with the bitter aroma of burnt coffee, and arrived at the ME's lab sooner than hoped. My eyes felt enlarged, as if they would cross and pop like balloons at any minute, and I relied on the steadiness of my cane to keep from spinning all the way to the slick, musty floor.

I knocked on the door. Quickly. In hopes it would be mistaken for anything other than an announcement of my arrival.

Edward opened the door, beaming. His thick-rimmed glasses reflected my shocked face, and his hair smelled of the same shampoo I remembered from when Ed had taken me into his home and rehabilitated my broken wings. "Oswald. So good to see you. Come in. I have your file."

Ed stepped aside, letting me enter first, and thankfully left the door open before heading to the back of the lab to retrieve said file. In the middle of the room sat an empty examination table, but it looked like Ed was in the midst of preparing for an autopsy. I wondered if my mere presence would contaminate any evidence, and I considered using that as an excuse before Ed interrupted his thoughts.

"I regret that I couldn't deliver this to you and Detective Gilzean myself. I have a full schedule today. Did you know there are—actually, never mind." He snatched the file, and turned my way. "I was thinking about what you said." Ed smiled and approached me.

I put my weight on my back foot, my stomach swelling. How could someone with such a perfect smile have done something so terrible? "What did I say?" I did not hide the tremble in my voice well. Where was out? Behind me? Yes, there. Nearest weapons: any tools _behind_ Ed. Damn it.

Jim's—no, _my_ gun.

"About…" A passerby in the hall paused him. Ed waited until their heels faded enough to speak, but his voice was considerably lower. "About you being…gray. So I went home, did some reading, and I wanted to say that I am perfectly okay with that. My interest in you is romantic. And intellectual. And…" He swallowed, throat visibly, uncomfortably, bobbing. "And I do you find you pleasing to look at. You have a unique way of dressing and styling your hair, particularly today. I find it very charming. But your boundaries are your boundaries and they would be that way regardless of who you are. Should you still want to consider dating. Dating me. That is to say, dating me in a romantic sense, not dating me like carbon dating." He let out a classic, nervous chuckle, fixed his glasses, then frowned. "Oswald, is something wrong?"

This Ed certainly rambled the way the other Ed could, but he was equally as terrifying. Suddenly, my head cleared, and a tense anger clenched my tingling nerves.

"Are you behind this, Ed?" I gestured to my badge, to the ID clipped to his chest, to the entirety of Oz. "This whole thing?"

Ed looked genuinely baffled, but he'd successfully conned me before. I _knew_ better. "Oswald, I'm not sure what you mean."

"This." The gun. I had the gun. I had power. Ed had nothing. I just had put a little more distance between us. I took a step back. "This whole _charade_. Convincing everyone to swap places? Just to screw with me?"

When Ed didn't reply, I scowled. Heat rushed to my face, and the gun seemed to pulse at my side. "Did you _really_ think it would work this time, _Nygma_? Wasn't shooting me and throwing me into the harbor _enough_?"

Ed backed into a cart, and its contents protested with loud _clanks_. "Oswald, I…I don't know what you're talking about."

I glared at him. The echo of my outburst against the sickly yellow tiles resonated in my mind, and the thick silence in the room gave rise to more doubts. I took a moment to let the powerful nausea ebb away, and to feel the tingling in my feet again. I was here, in the ME's lab, receiving a file about a case. Butch could do this task. Not me. "My apologies, Ed. I haven't felt well all morning. Excuse me." I slowly turned, still afraid to face my back to Ed, but then finally acquiesced and stepped for the door.

"Is it your PTSD?"

I gave him a half-turn of my head. "What?"

"Your PTSD? From when you were shot on that case? I understand." Ed shied away from me as he expedited his words. "I shouldn't bring up these inappropriate things in the workplace. Not your PTSD. I mean, your PTSD, _and_ dating. I apologize. I overstepped my bounds. I hope you feel better. Goodbye, Oswald."

I clenched my jaw. I didn't know whether I were angry or about to get sick, but from the heat on my neck and the cold sweat beading down my forehead, I felt more and more certain that the former was producing the latter. I scrambled out of Ed's office before I humiliated myself further.


	2. finding jim gordon

chapter 2: finding jim gordon

* * *

For me, to have seen Ed and be reminded of the love I bore for him, to feel that love crawl up my throat alongside the memory of warm blood, was as vexing as working out the many changes between my Gotham and Oz. As I drove, I came upon new streets, streets with pleasing traffic signals and routes that made sense. Plausible as it were that these new streets somehow proved that this Oz was a manifestation of my mind, I was not yet convinced. I had hallucinated before, dreamt before, run fruitlessly from nightmares before, but nothing felt so real as this Oz-Gotham.

I roamed Oz-Gotham while waiting for Barbara, and remembered a conversation I'd had with her last week. Before I was shot. An ordinary chat, about being unable to find something I wanted on the menu, so she picked up a cup of hibiscus tea for me, since it was the only non-black tea and non-coffee item the place had. She'd added the right amount of honey. She'd been worried about it when she handed the cream-colored take-out cup to me. We were supposed to have lunch, but a case had landed in Butch's lap, and thus, mine.

So she'd picked up the tea anyway, just because, and I'd thanked her before embracing her, kissing her on her cheek, and getting back to whatever research I'd been doing before she returned to…see, that was the foggy part of this memory. Nonetheless, it was a _memory_ , and it was something newly formed, but old. Like the way experts described déjà vu.

I worried I'd be lost in this world, and I wondered if it had a Wizard, or at least a pair of ruby slippers.

Because like _hell_ would I befriend such a deceptive, vile traitor as Barbara Kean!

But…I did need to return her car. If anyone in this hellhole knew me, or rather, whom I was supposed to be, it would be Barbara. All I had to figure out was how to retain all memories from my Gotham. I worried they would slip from me faster than my mayoral seat.

By the time Barbara texted me that she was ready to go, the parking outside her gallery had filled. I had to risk pulling beside a fire hydrant, an act I normally wouldn't have cared about, but I was trying to maintain a low profile here. I remembered I was a cop on my third loop around the block, and could do what I wanted. Maybe. Oz's GCPD seemed a little cleaner than expected.

"Can cops play hooky?" Barbara said as she plopped into the passenger seat and clicked her seatbelt. "I had my phone in hand, ready to schedule a ride, when you told me you were available."

"I became ill at work," I said, struggling to recall how to get home without using GPS. When Barbara shifted uncomfortably in her seat, I added, "I'm not contagious. Just…out of it. For now. A temporary set-back. Butch knows to call me if I'm truly needed."

Barbara's hand landed carefully on my forehead. "Hmm, you feel alright."

"I'm driving, Barbara."

"I know, and I'm checking for a fever."

"I told you, I'm okay now."

She sat back in her seat and stared out the window. "I'm grateful for the free lift in my own car, Penguin, but this isn't like you. You're right. You're out of it. Tell me you're still working on a case up here, like usual."

My eyes flickered her way. _Eyes on the strange roads, Oswald._ "Like usual? Up where?"

"In your head. Because you're constantly working out connections and planning your next move."

"You think I do that?"

"I doubt you solve your cases through sheer luck."

"Oh Barbara, you certainly do _know_ me."

"Um, and I know the roads better too, apparently. You were supposed to…"

I drove straight through the green light. "Silly me. Missed the turn."

She sighed. " 'Missed' the turn. Right. Funny how this will take us right past the _Commissioner_ , unless you're purposely trying to hit that traffic knot on Elliot."

My voice cracked as I genuinely asked, "What? Why would I need to see the Commissioner?"

"Not _the_ Commissioner. The _Commissioner_."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're getting at."

"I knew you couldn't put down a case. You just wanted to ditch Butch."

"I was _ordered_ home," I defended.

"I'm not working this case with you." She growled a little and glared out the window. "We talked about this. I'm not talking to him. I don't care what information he has to exchange. If he wants my clients' works, then he can run his _own_ gallery."

At the next red light, I tried my best to keep my composure with this slightly less insufferable version of Barbara. In the rearview mirror, I caught the frustrated blush cresting the bridge of my nose. I needed to work on taming my emotions _and_ physical reactions if I wanted to survive here. I turned toward her and asked firmly, "Barbara, _who_ are you talking about?"

She lifted a frustrated hand and cast that glare at me. " _Why_ would I be talking about Commissioner Essen while using male pronouns, Os?"

I really should've discovered that information while I was at the precinct. Apparently, my diligence had chosen to stay back in the real Gotham. "Then…?"

The light turned green. I was banking on a right turn at the next side street, and feared, for a moment, that Oz had placed a one-way sign on it. To my right, several shady nightclubs opened up before me. Small theatres dotted the road. Familiar territory, at last. Turning left would bring me to Fish Mooney's old club— _my_ old club.

And I discovered that the side street I had banked upon no longer existed. I was forced to continue onward, and to turn left, not right, onto that very road.

Where my club had been. Where a neon sign reading "The Commissioner" now hung.

"You'd better not be pulling over," she said as I pulled into a parking space littered with crunchy bits of asphalt and discarded playbills. She gave a dramatic shrug. "Fine. I'm not going in and I'm not here and don't come out getting _shot_ at this time."

 _This time?_ I wished for _my_ Barbara then, because at least she'd be better back up.

I shut the door, leaving the keys in the ignition, and she promptly clicked the locks in a tantrum-like manner.

"Well, this _is_ a bad neighborhood," I mused beneath my breath.

I found my way across the pock-marked road and stepped inside my former haunt. It lacked the opulence both Fish and I had favored, and steered more toward a Minimalist design, with a heavy hand on gray tones. A bouncer I recognized from my Gotham stopped me. I cast him one of my signature sneers and pushed onward; testing my unknown reputation was wiser to do near an exit. The bouncer acquiesced without more than a grunt, and as I traversed the black-topped tables and asymmetric patrons it became obvious that I would not be shot out of this club tonight.

I spotted the golden-brown, perfectly coiffed crown of the club's ruler. Jim Gordon sparkled in the club's shimmering lights, his blemish-free peach complexion pink with drink and the attention of the ladies in his lap. I had never seen Jim this way before, so carefree and relaxed, but there was a perfection and attention to detail that only Jim Gordon could have, and it permeated every aspect of his aesthetic, from his sharp suit to the decor of his home base. I perked a brow; he cleaned up well.

"Oswald Cobblepot." The ladies parted on their own, and Jim was left with an empty booth and several unfinished glasses of champagne. Jim invited me over with a nod, and I took the offer.

"Jim Gordon, old friend."

"Ah, so we're friends again, Oswald?" A grin flashed on his face before it returned to stone. "Sit."

I sat.

"What brings you here? Looking to put some holes into that suit?"

"A case, old friend," I said. "Thomas Dougherty. I'm sure he should be easy enough to find."

"That depends. Your girlfriend give any more thought to my offer?"

"She's not my girlfriend!"

Jim cocked his head back. "You sound repulsed, Oswald."

I composed myself quickly. "I merely tire of this… _outdated notion_ that men and women can't be friends. Don't you find such myths uninformed and, dare I say, _insulting_?"

Jim scanned me. "Huh. I suppose you're right." One of his servers approached. Jim signaled _everything_ in a wave, and soon the partially filled flutes were removed, and two glasses with pleasantly aromatic liquor arrived. "Dougherty. Yeah, I think I can find him."

"Without Ms. Kean's help, I'm sure."

"I don't do favors for friends," replied Jim, sipping what turned out to be sherry-aged Scotch. "Knowing you, this guy's probably a scum bag. We don't need his kind around here."

"Well don't _kill_ him," I said. Add that to the list of strange things I'd said all day.

"You know I don't do that," said Jim. Another sip. "Without a reason." He let out a short-lived laugh. "Allegedly."

"Of course." I smiled, and perhaps it was a little too much, because Jim smiled a little longer too.

"You're not the goody-two-shoes you claim to be, are you Oswald?"

I shrugged my brows. "Guilty."

Jim gazed at me for a beat, then shook his head of it and downed the rest of his drink. "You ever get déjà vu, Oswald?"

"Something like that's been happening a lot lately."

"Something like that. Sounds about right." A lackey leaned over and whispered in Jim's ear. Jim nodded and waved me away. "Looks like your ride left without you. Let me arrange a car for you."

I considered it. I also considered asking Jim if I could stay, maybe pick his brain on this nonsense. Who better to solve the case of Oz than star detective (sort of), Jim Gordon?

"I appreciate the offer, but I'll find my way. Thank you, old friend." Better to get a cab than to be a cop indebted to a criminal. At least not at this stage in the game. Besides, if worse came to worse, I could always call Butch.


	3. losing it, whatever 'it' is

chapter 3: losing it, whatever 'it' is

* * *

I styled my hair more cop-like today, figuring perhaps that had something to do with the strange looks I'd received at the precinct. As I smoothed the finishing touches with a tea-tree oil pomade that was _mine_ —although the scent was slightly off—Barbara entered the bathroom, a soft pink bathrobe draped on her body. She slipped her arms around my waist and lay her head on my shoulder.

"Looks good, detective," she said.

I tried not to squirm in her hold, tried not to sneeze at a stray curled hair that tickled my nose, when the memory hit me. Her warmth easing my panic before this very mirror, the morning of my first day back to work after the…what was it… _shooting_. Her assurances that I'd be welcomed back with open arms. That Butch would "take care of any assholes" who said otherwise, and she'd handle the rest. That warmth spread into the present and sat beside the unspoken tension from last night's fight.

"You know I love you, right?" It was my voice, my mouth, my mind that spoke those words. I sank into the familiar warmth, one I hadn't felt since my parents passed, knowing that I could enjoy something like this _just this once_. For just one moment. When Barbara left, I would tend to the conflict of memories in my mind.

"I know," she responded. "I'm still mad at you."

"Jim said he'd leave you alone."

Her head lolled along my shoulder, and we swayed a little, playful enough to be friendly, subdued enough to work through our spat. "Is that why you went to him?"

Oz-warmth thwarted the impulse to lie. "I don't know why, Barbara."

She sighed, and lifted her head. She plucked a curl that had stuck to my fresh pomade and re-smoothed my hair. "You two are drawn to each other, and I don't know what to do."

"Drawn to each other?" Was it that way in my Gotham? Jim and I weren't always friendly, but we had gone to extremes for each other. Killed for each other. We knew the worst in each other, and yet…

Another memory touched the surface in my mind, but it remained clouded, known only by the ripples it made.

Barbara interfered with my recall. "Why do we always fall for the bad boys, Pengy?"

"Fall?" I chuckled and shook my head. "No, no, I'm afraid you're mistaken."

"What about the ME?" I blanched, and Barbara, also watching our reflection, noticed. "What happened?"

"It's nothing…"

"I thought you liked him?"

I shook my head, terror gripping my throat. "I…it's complicated."

And then, a flicker of _my_ Barbara flashed in her eyes. "Did he _hurt_ you?"

My head shook side to side in small movements. "No…no…I-I…just decided I wasn't interested." I shrugged. "It happens."

But her eyes remained wild, unburdened by law. "You'd tell me if he did."

"Yes."

"Because you've been odd, lately."

"Just under the weather."

She slowly nodded, her body relaxing, but her eyes still fixed in skepticism. "I'm worried about you, and I'm still mad. But we'll talk more when you get home tonight. Got it? No matter what time it is."

"Yes ma'am."

She rolled her eyes and gave me a playful nudge. "You're not getting away with that again either, _bub_."

I maintained a smile until she she was gone, then shuddered and stared cruelly into the mirror. I would not sink into that comfort again. I would get out of Oz and back to Gotham, and seek revenge against…or at least…I would get back to the Gotham. That was the priority.

It was tempting to seek Barbara's help, but my mind was already muddled. No sense in having any misplaced feelings for _my_ Barbara upon my glorious return, for she was the one who'd betrayed me to Ed in the first place.

There was Butch. Surely we had the kind of intimate partnership that officers developed together, a work-marriage founded on trust. If Oz-Butch had any of the qualities of the real Butch, then I would have a man who could commit to a task and get it done. Butch had connections. He knew how to navigate the city and its underworld. He knew how to get his hands dirty and he wasn't afraid to do it.

But I risked accidentally liking Butch in the process.

Edward Nygma made me sick, despite the love and loyalty I still felt for him. That situation was messy, and rife with danger.

Jim Gordon was my only hope. All I had to do was convince Jim I wasn't making it up, or losing it. That meant convincing myself of the same.

* * *

Just before Butch and I took lunch, Thomas Dougherty turned himself in. He bore a shiner and some scratches, but was otherwise coherent. No one felt bad for him. Case just about closed. My partner and I were committed to busy work for another hour before hunger took over. We headed into the chilly, clear afternoon for the nearest deli. Let Dougherty wait for eons for the next step. He deserved it.

"Are there no cold cases?" I asked, desperate for a problem my mind could grind away upon. Instead of cold cases, it fixated upon my cold hands, even the one I'd shoved deep into my coat pocket. Each digit seemed to curse me for having left my gloves behind.

Butch shrugged. "What can I say, Os? We're good at our jobs."

"I doubt we're that good."

"Maybe not, but let's take the break while we've got it, alright? Be happy Gotham's had its first body-free day in a decade?"

"Don't jinx it now, Butch."

"Who are you, Murphy?" He held the deli's door for me, introducing both of us to the oils and spices within, and we ventured inside.

To find Edward Nygma waiting for a sandwich.

"I'm in the mood for pizza, actually," I said. Where was this fear coming from? I had moved forward in the face of danger before, particularly when the odds were stacked against me. Yet Ed froze me in place, made me think of fleeing.

And this Ed had a clean slate. This Ed had professed his feelings _to_ me.

This Ed was a failed coping mechanism inserted by my mind. But if that were true, what could anyone do to help me escape my own mind? Had Hugo Strange come back to torment Gotham? Was I really trapped in another facility, getting force-fed this lie? For what _purpose_?

And why, given my knowledge that this reality was not mine, had I not woken up yet?

"Os," said Butch, "you gonna order or what?"

When had we shuffled into the queue?

Trancelike, I babbled out the first sandwich on the menu. Upon realizing it contained a garlic aioli, I asked to strike that from the sandwich. I paid. We waited in line. I tried my best not to glance Ed's way, but fear pushed my eyes over, and Ed finally caught them, much to Butch's amusement.

"Oswald," said Ed. "So good to see you're feeling well. You had me worried there."

"Yes, thank you—"

Butch patted my shoulder. "You know, Nygma, I was wondering, you been to that tea joint across the street?"

"Why no, Detective Gilzean," Ed pushed up his glasses, "I haven't."

"Yeah, Oswald hasn't either."

My face burned, and I inwardly cursed, knowing Butch was mistaking my panic for a symptom of a crush. "I'm sure you could go there sometime, Butch, if you were curious. No need to send a guinea pig."

"Oh, well, I'd been meaning to go sometime," said Ed. "And Oswald, I'd be—" he cleared his throat, "—willing to visit with you, I mean, with both of you, before we head back to the precinct."

"Sounds great," Butch answered for me, as Ed's order was called.

I melted into the white noise, became the white noise, and once again, I was a fly on the wall, watching a film of my life. Our orders were ready. Butch grabbed both bags with one hand. We smiled politely at Ed and crossed the busy road. I stumbled; Butch helped me recover.

Teas were ordered.

Butch got a phone call while we waited for our tea. Said he had to "take this," and that he'd meet us "back at the precinct."

I tried to ditch Ed as we walked back to work, but Ed proved quicker. Chitchat seemed the only thing I was capable of doing. Keep Ed at an emotional distance if I couldn't keep him at a physical distance. Try not to drop my lunch and tea. Survive until we could part ways.

At my desk, I stared at my sandwich, trying to recall how I made it from deli to desk. This wasn't my _usual_ order either. And that was disconcerting, for I now _remembered_ my usual order which meant that Oz had upped its quicksand game and would soon swallow me whole.

I was angry with Butch, but needed him there at all costs. If Butch weren't there soon, I swore I would explode.

Butch returned to his half-eaten sandwich with two files. "Cold cases," he said, passing one off. "Didn't think you'd be back so soon."

"I…how could you just _ditch_ me like that?"

"I didn't ditch you. I mean, yeah, I was _thinking_ of ditching you, but that was a legit call, so—" His cellphone rang. _Convenient_. Butch's eyes narrowed in vexation as he read the caller ID, and he held up a finger to me and answered the phone. "Hello?" He regarded me throughout the conversation, yet still nodded and gave verbal acknowledgements that he was listening to the caller. He soon hung up, and softly set down the phone before wheeling his chair over to my desk.

I wanted to hit him for putting me through that nonsense with Ed. "What."

"You okay, partner?"

"Do I _look_ okay?"

"No, actually, you don't. You'd tell me if anyone did anything to you, right?"

I glared at Butch. " _Who_ called you, Butch."

"Don't worry about it. Here." He picked up my tea. "I'll dump this. It's probably crap anyway. Let me con Captain Alvarez outta one of his specialty teas and brew that up for you."

"Was it Barbara?"

"I said don't worry about it."

" _Answer_ me, Butch!"

Butch stared at me silently for several beats, before saying, "We're just looking out for you, that's all." Butch scratched his chin. "If you need to report a crime, I can help you. We can get you to the counselor—"

"You're acting like…like I was…"

Butch leaned in a little further and whispered, "Were you? Did he do that to you?"

I shook my head vehemently. "No, no, that's not it."

"But it is something?"

I stayed silent.

Butch stood. "Sorry about this," he indicated the tea. "Won't happen again. I'll be back with something better."

The new tea helped. Butch's looks of concern didn't. In fact, I hated this whole ordeal, thinking how Oz's Butch and Barbara were scheming in favor of my safety instead of against it. How cruel and unfair was a world where my enemies were good friends of mine, and the man I loved (and hated for shooting me) actually returned my romantic feelings?

The only relationship that made any sense to me was the one with Jim Gordon. Our roles were reversed, sure, but our dynamic was the same.

I needed to see him.


	4. king of gotham

chapter 4: king of gotham

* * *

I exited the taxi around the corner from _The Commissioner_ only to be pelted by rain. I hurried inside, where the same bouncer from before gave me the go ahead to enter.

The night owls and club goers were already filtering in. I knew the type. Most wanted the thrill of clubbing where the clubbing was hot, without the aggravation of a packed house. They were the ones who envied the ambience sans people. There were always a few groupies waiting to be noticed by the boss, hoping to be the one on hand who overheard the "I need someone who can…" declaration of the day. Fools. All the easier to deceive and manipulate.

I headed for Jim, flanked by a goon who didn't care that I had noticed him. I approved, or would have, if I weren't _me_ and Jim weren't _Jim_. I expected more trust from Jim than this.

"Detective Cobblepot," said Jim, lounging in a private booth far too cozy to be Minimalist. A band set up on stage, one I had seen play in my Gotham club. Jim was dressed as though tonight were a black-tie affair, with less eccentricity than I would have liked, but enough to stand out in a place like this. Perhaps that was the point.

"Old friend," I said, taking a seat beside him. The rounded booth held a view of the stage, and a privacy scrim was tied to the side. "Dougherty turned himself in today."

"I knew he would." Jim gave a wave, and a goon relaxed the curtain, disappearing us from the club's view, but leaving us with a hazy view of the stage. "A drink?"

"Please."

Jim snapped his fingers, and the goon took the command, stopped a server, and ordered for us. He leaned back in the booth, eyeing me with a curiosity that _my_ Jim had. "Yesterday's look was a one-off thing?"

"It left me feeling a little…out of place. Oh well. Life's too short not to experiment a little, right?"

Jim gave me a vexed shrug. "It suited you."

"A _friend_ of mine said it had a _'disco vampire'_ feel. Not befitting of an officer of the law."

Jim regarded me with a slight grin. "But you aren't an ordinary cop, are you, Oswald?"

I gave a flippant shrug. "What can I say? I'm a man of many hats."

Jim grunted a laugh as our drinks arrived. He toasted with me, and we sipped the mysterious cocktails, which were flavored with a touch of citrus and something smoky. It seemed like the kind of drink Jim would be, if he were a drink. Strong, a little deceiving, not accepting that two things don't fit together just because someone said so. It was hard for me to think of my Jim Gordon, drinking some cheap brown liquor just to take the edge off or forget a long day. This cocktail had top-shelf sensibilities.

"So, man of many hats. Why do I have the pleasure of seeing you and hopefully not shooting you two days in a row?"

"Because, old friend," I said, with slight hesitation. "I regret to say that I have a problem, and you're the only one I'm certain can fix it."

"Another Dougherty?"

"If only." I turned toward him entirely, and Jim obliged me with his complete attention. My Jim did that often, but he did so with either skepticism or a scowl. This one gazed at me with a slight smile in his eyes, and it flustered me as much as it flattered me. "I'm going to say something that sounds crazy to you."

"Crazy's kind of a misused word, don't you think?"

"I suppose. You'll certainly think I'm in need of treatment."

"Go on."

"I don't belong here. I'm…out of place."

"You look at home here."

"Not this fine establishment, Jim. The general _here_. There's another Gotham out there, a grayer Gotham, that I _would_ call home if I could get there."

Jim cast me a wry grin. "Bored with this polished turd?"

"No, no, you misunderstand me. This other Gotham is a real place, and this one's an…Oz, if you will."

"If I will what?"

"Come now, Jim, you're a smart man. If you will _entertain_ the idea that I consider my Gotham a more comfortable place."

"We could combine our resources. Our…talents. Make that Gotham a reality."

"That's not what I mean—"

"You and I, together. Kings of Gotham."

No…that would mean falling further into Oz and I could not do that, no matter how alluring. "You're the devil, Jim, aren't you?"

"You think I fell from heaven?"

My breath hitched, and I hid a blush behind another sample of the cocktail. "I'd like to keep Gotham clean. Keep out the riffraff. I thought we shared that vision, old friend."

"Wouldn't you rather have controlled crime, Oswald? You and I both know this place is a powder keg. One wrong death, and the city'll plunge into chaos."

"Like the Waynes," I said behind my glass.

Jim's eyes flit to his drink, and he shrugged his brows. "I don't know these Waynes. The Kyles maybe."

Of course, another swap. I shook my head. "We should be stopping crime."

"And we'd be stopping most of it, together."

I set my glass down with force. "I'm serious, Jim! This wasn't conjecture over what could be! Surely you're aware of some of the _stranger_ things that've occurred in Gotham. It can't be that far-fetched that I've fallen in this alternate reality and need your help getting home."

The goon peered into the curtain. Jim nodded; everything was fine.

"Explain," demanded Jim in his usual, blunt manner. It had an oddly calming, nostalgic effect.

"In _my_ Gotham," I said, " _I'm_ the criminal kingpin, and _you're_ the star detective." Jim let out a brief laugh at that. "And Gotham is open for business."

Jim sipped his cocktail and swirled the glass, sucking on his teeth. "Let's say you're telling the truth. You're relying on my _virtues_ to help you solve this mystery?"

"If I don't get home, old friend, then it's only a matter of time before I claim a new crown. I'm not the sharing type." Not since Ed shot me, at least.

"Is that so?" Jim's snarl hide a smirk, but soon the smirk took over. "I've got a hunch you're telling the truth. Huh. Maybe that _does_ make me a detective." Spoken dryly, in pure Jim Gordon fashion.

My stomach undulated. "Do you? Have a hunch?"

Jim gave me a slow nod. "We could help each other out."

"What do you need?"

"Access to Barbara Kean's contacts and transaction records."

"Done."

"That was quick. Don't you care about your friend?"

" _My_ Barbara is a crime-boss wannabe who plotted against me. I harbor no love for her."

"I love that vicious honesty. Would you believe I'm a lover of transparency?"

"I absolutely would."

"Who else are you willing to give up?"

"I see you're just as brazen as my detective too." I shook my head. "We're not negotiating more than that yet."

"You must be quite the manipulator in your Gotham."

I fluttered my lashes for effect. "Guilty as charged."

Jim smiled. "I like this you. Too bad for me, huh? If I get you home, does that mean I get my less-exciting Oswald back?"

"Perhaps. We'll just have to take the risk. You're still a risk taker, aren't you, Jim?"

"Now I'm guilty as—"

My phone rang. I answered. Jim didn't appear insulted. "Yes? I mean, Detective Cobblepot speaking." Jim smirked, gazing at me while I spoke. "There goes our clean slate. I'll be right there." I hung up. "Gotta go, old friend. Murder calls."

He put his hand atop mine. "You okay to drive?"

I glanced at my unfinished drink. "Just fine. Thanks for the hospitality."

"Drinks here tomorrow night. We'll work out the details."

There was something golden in that smile. I returned it. "Can't wait."


	5. rogues' gallery

chapter 5: rogues' gallery

* * *

I couldn't fathom what Jim Gordon wanted with Barbara's information. I didn't peg Jim as an appreciator of art, either here or in my Gotham, so it had to be tied to money. Yet given all of my resources at the precinct, I had a harder time making connections and discerning motive than I did when I was a vagabond, ex-umbrella boy.

The Kean Gallery was a mid-sized establishment, featuring an array of works by Gotham and regional artists. Special exhibits sat near the back, drawing folks through the entirety of the gallery, and offices and studio spaces were upstairs.

I remembered the way to Barbara's office. I knew the names of both front-desk attendees and even glanced at one of my favorite sculptures, a twisting abstract figure of polished stone.

I fabricated an excuse to be there. Lunch, before another body turned up. Ditching Butch hadn't required much; the oaf believed in my so-called friendship with the traitorous Barbara Kean, and felt it was healthy. _Co-conspirator_. I thought of directing their attentions back to Ed, letting those criminal personalities of theirs come out and deliver him my vengeance, for I knew I could not do it myself. How sweet it would be, to know he suffered for his transgressions, and to have that suffering delivered by those who'd instigated his actions? Who would be befuddled then, when they were arrested by _me_ , star detective of the GCPD? Ah yes, the vengeance would be glorious, if only it didn't hurt to think about.

It was hard to consider my father's abused remains against my love for Ed. So I would do this thing for Jim Gordon.

And perhaps visit _my_ Jim Gordon upon my return. For however reluctant he would be to help me, he _would_ protect me against those who would seek to hurt me.

Barbara trusted me in her office, alone. Leaving me with nothing but a sweet kiss on the forehead and a promise she'd be free soon, she left the office, and her computer, unlocked for me.

But Barbara was a prudent woman, I recalled suddenly. She does not like clutter, but she feels the physical grounds her. What I needed would be filed away. I struggled to recall a conversation wherein I pleasantly mocked the way she organized books on the shelf in her bedroom. The books lined up before my mind's eye, plain as day. Of course. She would be the same here! I found the information I needed in minutes, and snapped pictures. I merely needed to send them off somewhere, cleansing my phone of all evidence as soon as possible. Barbara knew my phone's security passcode, and I hers.

I perked a brow at the overturned cellphone on her desk, but heard her familiar gait grow louder and louder. I double-checked that I had re-filed what I'd stolen, and turned my eyes to the door where her form arrived.

She was a stunning woman, my best friend, and I envied her for the social success it had given her in college. Where we'd attended. I shuddered, forcing the false memory out of my mind.

"Pengy? What is it?"

"Nothing," I said. "A draft, that's all."

"Oh." She gave me that strange look again. "Are you sure you're up for this?"

"Of course," I said. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because it's a million degrees in here."

"I'm quite comfortable," I said. "Perhaps _you're_ the one who's ill, Barbara."

She fanned her neck with her hand. "Too much up and down today. Three artists decided to finally get their work over to us, last minute."

"You'd think you were running a high school, not a gallery."

"You'd think!"

It was true. Her feet were a little red where the back of her new heels dug into her skin, suggesting she'd been doing more walking than usual, or perhaps, more manual labor than her shoes were made for.

"I'd suggest taking lunch outside, but I don't want you to tire yourself further." Who said that? Certainly not me. Yet I nodded at her sore feet and even…offered…to have her put them in my lap…to…

I am no stranger to domestic care, but for _Barbara_?

She declined the offer I made with a gesture only, and said, "I need a break from this place. Let's go out." She stood, snatching her coat and other things. "We need to stop at the special exhibit room before we leave."

"Don't yell at him again," I said of a lackadaisical colleague of hers I hadn't realized I knew.

"He's been better. He just needs to be _perfect_ this time. I don't have high hopes."

"Hire someone else," I suggested on our way down the steps.

"He's trustworthy. He's just not great at his job."

We stopped in the special exhibit room, where my heart stopped with us.

My portrait.

My mouth went dry, and I clutched Barbara's arm for support, lest I fall and make a fool of myself.

Hung prominently on the far wall, my body stood, painted in the scenery of my father's home. Ed's body stood there as well, having been placed there upon my request. Only our heads were missing, replaced by imperfect ovals of blank canvas, and punctuated with green question marks. I blinked, thinking this to be a hallucination of Oz, and answered Barbara's question about my status long after she asked it.

"I'm okay. I just need some water."

"Here." She tried lowering me to the gallery floor to rest. I slid in my shoes, nearly taking both of us down. "Stay here."

"I'd rather not." I got to my feet and forced myself out of the room. I'd gotten what I'd come for, and in return, Oz had punished me with _this_. My only consolation was the knowledge I would soon make Jim Gordon smile, and in return, he would send me home.

"I should be getting back to work, Barbara. Excuse me."

"Let me drive you."

"Nonsense. How ever would you find a parking space when you return?"

"It's a temporary inconvenience." She put her hand on her hip. "Come on."

"Nevertheless, it's an inconvenience you shouldn't have. My car should be ready next week." Knowledge of this vehicle had been given to me the first day I arrived, but now I knew what it looked like. "I'll find my way back."

She reached for my arm. "Oswald—"

I swatted her away. "I'll find my way back!"

My voice bounced off every surface, reaching everyone in the gallery, who stopped and stared at my outburst with shock, though no face bore more shock than my sweet friend Barbara's, whom I had just humiliated.

She drew close to me, and through the privacy of gritted teeth, said, "If you don't tell me what's going on with you when you get home tonight, then _don't bother coming home_."

She stormed in the direction of her office, and I took a moment to collect myself, hoping to avoid any glimpse of that god-forsaken painting. I took a deep breath and exited the gallery without a word.

* * *

"Nice work, Oswald," said Jim. I didn't dare give him my phone or the original photos, but the printed list he held loosely in his grip seemed to please him. "Guess that's why you're the detective. Run into trouble?"

"Just a bothersome parking situation and an unsettling painting. I expect nothing less from an art gallery."

His eyes lifted momentarily from the list. "An unsettling painting?"

I shrugged, having no desire to penetrate the topic further. I still didn't know this Jim Gordon. "It was no Mona Lisa," I said to the King of Mona Lisa Smiles. He sent me one in return, and studied my findings. I waited with rising impatience for him to say something about my payment. Our drinks arrived, and the cocktail helped. I relaxed in the private booth, staring at the way his hands held the paper.

"Well, Oswald, this'll do just fine." He folded the paper and tucked it into his jacket. "Now, walk me through this. How do you expect me to get you home? Is it a portal? Some kind of device?"

"I'm not sure, but there's a man I am almost certain is behind it," I said, my lips curling into a sneer. "A man so utterly _vile_ I can't—" My drink sloshed over the edge of my glass, forcing me to set it down and wipe my hand of droplets. "I can't get close to him, but I need to know what he knows." I looked up from wiping my hand to find Jim studying me. My face ran embarrassingly hot, and I sipped the cocktail, playing it off like the playful flush of alcohol. It was rare to see Jim this close, particularly a Jim with flexible rules who didn't want to arrest me. He couldn't have _any_ edge over me; I knew so little of this world, and releasing any further information, consciously or sub-consciously, would provide him with more advantages.

"Who?" he asked, when the silence had become noticeable.

I leaned forward just a little, to keep the exchange private. That's when I detected a note of my Jim's cologne. My head filled with a real memory, that of our second meeting, when he had pulled me close before firing a shot beside my head, saving my life.

"There was a time when I'd been so pleased to know you, old friend. That is, _my_ Jim Gordon. I had this _feeling_ about him, that he was one of the good ones. Only that friendship didn't seem to last, I'm sorry to say. Looking back now, I wonder…well, let bygones be bygones, hm?"

There was a flicker in his eyes, a twitch in his cheek. He bit his lip before saying, "Sounds like your Jim didn't really know you."

"Yet I think he knows me better than anyone. I certainly knew him that way."

"Forget him, for now. Let's solve this problem of yours."

I searched his eyes for the source of that flicker. What was it, Oz-Jim? Why did you look at me the way my Jim did? The way he used to?

My mind turned over the possibilities, and while it was entirely likely a man of his position wanted to use me for my resources, an unshakeable feeling that this was something else lingered. Cops would call it a _hunch_ , but I was no cop, no matter what Oz said.

I'd misread signals before.

"Edward Nygma," I finally answered.

"Nygma?" Jim said with upward inflection.

"You know him?"

Jim grunted. "Strange name. Why this Nygma character? Who is he?"

"He's the medical examiner at my precinct. And he's the last man I saw alive before I died and came here."

He arched his brows. "So this is some kind of afterlife for you?"

"I hope not, old friend." There were some key elements missing, like my beloved parents. Of course, it was entirely plausible we were sorted differently at death. " _My_ Ed was the one who…"

Jim refused to let me look away, trying to stay in my eyeline. "Ed killed you?"

I polished off my cocktail and returned my look to him. I had to be the stronger criminal, not this sad creature unable to finish a sentence. "My last memory was of him shooting me in the stomach. And then I woke up on _Barbara Kean's couch_."

Jim had put on his best stony mask, but I saw through it. He was _livid_. That, or the alcohol had begun affecting him as I hoped he thought it affected me.

"Why Jim, you look more surprised than I felt."

"I was just thinking, if he had succeeded, I wouldn't have a pal in the GCPD."

"I'm sure you have plenty of pals on your payroll, Jim."

His grin widened beyond that of Mona Lisa's. "None as criminal as you."

We shared a laugh, and he waved his hand for more drinks while finishing his.

"So you want me to shake up this Ed a little, see if he knows something?"

"It's not a matter of _if_ he knows anything, old friend. He _does_ know something. He orchestrated the whole thing."

Jim nodded. "Why'd he shoot you, your Ed?"

I stared at the stage, where several nobodies set up equipment for the night's first act. "Is it important?"

"You're the detective, you know how this works. Any detail could be bigger than you initially think. If you think Ed is the same Ed from your world, then I need to know what I'm getting my crew into."

I prayed to the gods of speedy service for our next drinks to arrive, but they didn't. "Well, old friend, he killed me because…because he didn't love me enough not to."

Jim processed that just as the late drinks arrived. "Sorry to hear that, Oswald. I'm sure someone back there cares."

I looked at him, and thought of my Jim Gordon back in Gotham. Was he even working on my case? Surely a missing mayor would raise his brow. "Perhaps," I said, and I downed my drink, swallowing my sorrow. I gave him a farewell smile. "I should be heading off—"

He placed a hand atop my arm. "Nonsense." He poured me a glass of water from a pristine pitcher on the table. "Stay awhile."

My head _was_ starting to feel foggy, and this Jim certainly knew how to brighten my spirits… "You're a very hospitable man, Jim. How can I refuse?"

He smiled and lifted his glass. "Cheers, Oswald."

We toasted. "Cheers, Jim."


	6. a night to remember, part 1

chapter 6: a night to remember, part 1

* * *

An officer discharging their weapon wasn't as rare in Oz as I'd previously thought.

I pulled the trigger and suddenly smelled the harsh cologne of my instructor, Frank Carbone. I'd taken private lessons, because I'd struggled at the academy, and was referred by a colleague. By Butch.

One of the suspects fell. The other took cover behind the door of their sedan. Butch looked over at me, sweat glistening in the street light. "Say what you want about Frankie, but he sure as hell taught you how to shoot." Butch fired at the suspect, and his fire was returned with cursed-laden trash talk.

"If only you knew," I said. "Where's backup?" My shot missed. Without eyes on our charge, we could lose him. Thankfully, the fool continued to tell us he was still here, and that he still had bullets.

"Taking forever," said Butch. "Think we oughta tire him out?"

My instructor's voice again. _"There's a rush that comes with pulling the trigger, and another that comes with hitting your target. That can tire you out."_ He'd sidled up beside me in our booth, although we were alone. I hadn't taken him for a man of men, given the bumper stickers on his truck, but his hands on my waist had told the tale just fine. He'd slid his hands over mine, fixing my aim, but I hadn't fired.

I shot at the suspect. Near miss. I took a deep breath to calm my nerves. Letting your emotions and ego overwhelm you in these situations is the route to mistakes, unnecessary bloodshed, and an Internal Affairs investigation. The thought of going off-book made me queasy.

Yet I knew I'd be more happy marching fearlessly toward this fool with a shotgun and a lack of patience. I figured that was Jim's doing. Spending all that time with a criminal, helping him help Barbara…was that what we were doing?…it was rubbing off on me. It was a mistake, but I'd made mistakes before. I wouldn't make another one in the field.

Backup arrived, and the suspect panicked. While red and blues flickered, and my fellow officers shouted, the suspect cried out in surrender, and our priority shifted.

Medics tended to the living involved, while officers tended to our unfortunate kill. As the medic cleaned the scuff on my face, I remembered how my instructor had done the same, after shoving me into the wall of the range when I'd refused his advances. He'd been interrupted, and I'd been freed before the scene had escalated further. But I'd become a better shot, because now, I shot to kill. Because every target had become Carbone.

Or had he already been a target? The thought amused me at first, then made me shudder.

"You feelin' alright, Os?" said Butch during our return to the precinct. I was thankful that it was his car that took a bullet this time. "You were movin' pretty good back there."

" 'For a man with a limp,' you mean?"

"Well…"

"Just because I move differently than you, doesn't mean I don't do it well." I had the urge to call him some sort of degrading name, but couldn't pinpoint why. I felt more focused on our coming debrief and my late meeting with Jim Gordon.

"Yeah, that was a dick thing to say, sorry Os. Just making sure you didn't pull anything."

"Did _you_?"

"Twisted my ankle a little."

"Isn't that ironic."

Butch grunted. "Not the one I drive with. Hey, you want somethin' to eat?"

"I want to get this over with and go home."

"You mean go see Gordon." He pshawed. "I don't know why you bother with him."

"Gordon who?"

"Don't play dumb with me, I'm your partner. Jim Gordon."

"You shouldn't say that word, and it's none of your business."

"Sorry Os, but I don't think he bats for your team."

His eyes stayed on the road, but I glared at him with a raised brow anyway, certain he would feel it. " _Really_ , Butch?"

"I'm just sayin', he used to go with that Thompkins chick."

"Yes, we all know about Dr. Lee Thompkins—"

Butch snorted. "Doctor? You get hit in the head worse than you thought? Or does she have some kinda new street name we gotta worry about?"

I rolled my eyes. "My mistake. I'm not big on calling criminals by their street name. And I don't like riddles."

"It's a dumb name."

"Butch!"

"A _silly_ name, I mean. Besides, Gordon killed her boy-toy after they broke up, and that broke her. You really want him to kill Barbara?"

"Why would he kill Barbara? He's trying to help her."

"Help her?" He let out an incredulous groan. "Oh yeah, I've gotta hear this. Keep in mind, he's probably just manipulating you. That's what he does. We've seen him take down some great officers the same way."

None of their names came to mind. "No, he's trying to help her, Butch. I'm not stupid. I know what I'm doing."

"How's he helping her?"

I struggled to recall how, but Butch didn't need to know that. There was no way he could be right about this. I trusted Jim, strange as that sounded, and something inside me said he was a better man than my own partner. "A shady client. I'm worried for her. My relationship with Gordon is a matter of convenience. You know how it is."

"Yeah, well get whatever you need from him quick, because I'm not letting this go on much longer."

"I will."

* * *

Despite what I'd told Butch, I made it a priority to stop at the Commissioner after work, despite the late hour. It was a Friday night, and the raucous of the club crowd was overwhelming. I took respite in Jim's private booth. He flashed me a smile and waved for drinks. It had become a ritual.

"Rough day?" he said of the scuff on my face.

"Just a regular day at the office," I mused. "But I'm sadly not here for pleasantries, old friend. I'd like an update on Barbara's predicament."

"Slow down, Oswald." He patted my arm. "Pleasantries are what make this world work."

"You never struck me as a man of pleasantries."

"You know me so well."

"So? Barbara?"

"What about her?"

"Her problem."

"I don't follow, Oswald. I thought her chapter in this was closed."

I scoffed. "That's the sole reason I'm here, Jim."

His brow pinched at the bridge of his nose, and he looked me up and down. "You feeling okay?"

I rolled my eyes and looked out at the crowd. Would people stop asking me that? "I'm feeling just—"

 _Ed!_

"Excuse me," I said, sliding out of the booth. I pushed through the crowd and tapped the shoulder of the tall wallflower without a wall. Out of place, as usual, wearing his adorable collared shirt and glasses, his hair parted neatly and smoothed. He turned to me and smiled.

"Oswald! You remembered?"

"Sadly, I am here on a case," I said. He frowned, and I shook my head and beamed at him. "Not to worry, Ed, there's no danger. Is this the group you're here to see?"

He shook his head, the smile never leaving his face. "No. They're next. I hope. The flyer was unclear. Names strewn everywhere. No sense of order _or_ composition for that matter."

I vaguely recalled him mentioning a local punk group who covered _very_ old songs. They were playing here this week. He'd mentioned this. Of _course_ this wasn't the group he'd gushed about.

"A drink while we wait?" I proposed. It would give Jim a moment to remember our deal. Surely he wouldn't mind if I spent some money in his establishment. "On me."

" 'We'?"

I grinned and shrugged one shoulder. "It's possible my work here may be done for the night."

An awkward smile flickered across Ed's face, and he held his hands politely behind his back. "Is it possible we could call this an impromptu date?"

I relished the idea. "I think we should." I held out my hand. "Shall we?"

"Hold hands on the way to the bar?" Ed's eyes flitted to my outstretched palm. He nodded quickly and took my hand. All felt right. "Onward!"

We meandered as a unit through the crowd. I dared not glance Jim's way.

"Oswald, I was starting to worry—"

I squeezed his hand to signal I couldn't hear him. He waited until we arrived at the packed counter.

"I was starting to worry I'd offended you," Ed said while we waited. "Perhaps I did. For that, I am deeply sorry."

"You didn't offend me. I had a touch of the flu." We nearly had a spot, but a burly person with a mohawk cut in front of us. I decided against making a scene. "I worried about offending you, or worse, passing it along."

He smiled wide. "Don't worry, Oswald. I'm a medical examiner. I can deal with the flu. In the future." His smile broke. "If…that is—forget I said that."

I released his hand and touched his cheek. "Ed, there's something I'd like to do very much."

He didn't catch it immediately. "Oswald, it's our turn."

"Yes, Ed, it is." I rose up and kissed him, an act he did not immediately return. My heart fluttered in embarrassment and I lowered myself. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"Don't be sorry. I liked that very much. I didn't know how comfortable you'd be."

It took a moment to realize that he wanted to respect who I was. So few have. "It's my fault for not being clearer that day in your lab. This is okay."

"It is? I would never want you to feel like you need to do something because I want it."

"It is, and—" Is this what young lovers felt in all those books and movies? "…And you are the perfect gentleman, Ed." We leaned to reconnect, but within seconds of grazing his lips, he was torn from me.

"You're coming with us," said one of Jim's goons.

Another goon nodded at me. "Boss wants to see you."

I snarled. "Oh, I'm _certain_ he does." I reached for Ed. "This way, Ed. These _fools_ have obviously forgotten whom they're dealing with." I should have worried over Ed's safety in a place like this! A rash oversight. Such is the power of romance.

"Yeah, whatever." The goon holding Ed snorted and hauled him off. Onlookers barely did a thing. Complicit _sheep_! How can one look in the face of injustice and feel _nothing_?

I followed them through the compliant crowd as the band on stage wrapped their set. Ed would miss the next act, perhaps the very act he came here to see. I wondered if he'd be able to listen to their music anymore without being reminded of his horrid treatment by—

Jim Gordon.

He stood from his private booth and straightened his suit, while more goons flanked him.

I stormed to his side. "Jim Gordon, you'll unhand Edward at once!"

"I will _not_ ," he said, following the goons and my dear Ed backstage.

"Such a flagrant violation of our arrangement will most certainly be met with _force_ , old friend!"

"Uh huh."

I dug my hands into my pockets, searching for my phone. Butch wouldn't like it, but I could listen to his I-told-you-sos later. A free goon gripped my wrist, halting the rear of our party. Ed's captors continued to hustle Ed.

Jim stepped in front of me. "Don't call your partner, Oswald." Behind him, Ed was shuffled into a storage room as if he were a misbehaving child. Thankfully, my old friend had neglected to strip me of my sidearm. Fool.

"Give me one good reason not to!" I hissed at him. I could thwack the goon's knees with my cane, or drop the cane and draw my weapon. I wondered which would be more effective.

"I will, but I need you to trust me."

"One more strike, Jim…"

Jim nodded, and then signaled to the goon, who released me. We stepped inside the room, where the other goons held Ed in a folding chair on the opposite end.

"It's going to be okay, Ed," I assured him, though it did little to ease his obvious suffering. He hadn't been cut or severely bruised yet, and I intended to keep it that way. "Explain this to me, old _friend_."

Jim kept me close to the door, far from Ed. He pulled out his phone and showed me a picture. "Do you recognize this piece?"

"No." I scoffed at the child's play. "Why would I?"

"Look closely at it," he said, and he enlarged it. A portrait, with two faces missing, replaced instead by question marks. "Do you recognize anything? Anything stand out to you?"

"Other than it being a dreadfully _obvious_ piece that comments on high society's sense of identity, no, _nothing_ stands out to me. Does this have something to do with Barbara?"

Jim didn't answer directly. "Barbara's part is over, Oswald."

"Then why show me a silly painting? Why do this to Ed? Make sense, or we're done here."

He showed me another photograph, this time of two people at a pizzeria. "What's her name?"

"I don't recognize either of them, Jim, and I've had enough of this."

" _Look closer_ ," he growled. He zoomed in on the left woman. Neither her brilliantly colored hair or her calculating disposition struck a chord in me.

"Are you telling me you want me to search for her? Is _that_ what this is about?"

He stepped into my personal space. "Ed _shot_ you, Oswald," he whispered. "He tossed you off a dock and left you for dead. Don't you remember?"

I smirked incredulously. "No."

"Well I do. And I'm not letting this happen to you again."

"I highly doubt this will happen again, _old friend_ , because I'm placing you under arrest—"

Jim placed his palm on my shoulder blade. "Come with me."

"I will _not_ leave Ed."

Jim flashed a frustrated smile and turned to his abhorrent goons. "Stay here. I have some business to take care of."

"Oswald?" pleaded Ed, and one of the goons hit him.

"Did I say hit him?" Jim barked. "Just keep him here and make sure he doesn't shout or leave. Can you follow that order, or do we need a _repeat_ of last week?" Jim pushed me toward the door again. "Oswald, we're going."

I resisted, and thought of my cane. I could beat Jim if need be. I _would_. "Ed, I'll be back for you, I won't—"

Jim ushered me through the door and I grit my teeth, all the way out the into the back alley. More goons guarded a vehicle, a nondescript sedan that looked beneath a man of his influence. Jim, as he did with all his peons, communicated with short nods and small gestures.

He was kidnapping me alone.

But not before taking my gun and phone from me.

"Get in," he said.

"I will not—!"

He popped the trunk. " _Get in_."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Hey everyone! I'd wanted to upload two chapters a day, but we were hit by a storm here, and for the past two days, internet has been spotty. Like, _really_ spotty. Like every few minutes it goes out. (It's bad for Netflix too, erg!) So it's making it hard to stick to that schedule. That means you might get more than two chapters uploaded tomorrow. It's going to mess with some of the pacing, but *shrug*, I don't have any control over it. Thanks for bearing with me and my spotty internet!

-M


	7. a night to remember, part 2

chapter 7: a night to remember, part 2

* * *

I contemplated destroying a brake light for my freedom, but I had a hunch I hadn't been sentenced to death. Crime bosses didn't do these things themselves, not without backup present. Jim was a smart man, a king of kings. He would have taken my cane from me if he truly wanted to disarm me. No sense in worrying. I noted every stop, every turn, every sound and smell, until we arrived at the docks. This was about Ed, not me. It was about separating us. He needed me alive. My hunch was correct.

I hoped.

The trunk opened, and the watery stink of the harbor greeted me, along with Jim's face. His countenance focused, he lifted me out of the trunk. I didn't fight; this wasn't the moment for that. Once on my feet again, I straightened my clothes and glared at him. A nod asked me to follow.

He brought me to the end of the dock. I stayed away from its edge, while he was unafraid of its edge. "Come here, Oswald."

I was fine right where I was. "What do you plan on doing to me?"

He stared over the water and all its nighttime reflections. "Do you remember how we met?"

"At the precinct, if I recall."

"At the club," he corrected. "Before it was mine. Before it was _yours_."

I scowled at him. "You've lost it, old friend, and now you're making an innocent man pay for it."

He continued staring, unfazed. "The first time we met wasn't as memorable as the time we met here."

"We've never met here before," I retorted, "so yes, this time is _quite_ memorable."

"This isn't happening again," he muttered. He looked at me, then sighed. "I'm sorry for this." He pulled his gun from his coat and gripped me tight. I panicked. I was wrong. This was it. This was the end. I would meet Death at the end of this stinking dock. My cane fell to the ground, and without a weapon, I gripped his wrists, wrestling against his might. I'd heard rumors Jim was ex-military, but now I knew it for sure. He was unbeatable. I was dead.

He lifted his gun.

He fired.

I went into the harbor.

I swam to the surface on instinct, and clutched what I could on the dock's edge. My hands were met with pocked concrete instead of fenders, and my shoes grew heavy with frigid water. Jim dove in after me, an entirely unnecessary gesture in any other situation, but in my shock I was bumbling and flapping about in the water like the injured prey of a leopard seal.

"Don't touch me!" I shrieked, finally finding a fender to latch onto. "Don't _touch_ me, Jim Gordon!"

"Okay!" he shouted over the sound of our treading and the ringing in my ear. "Okay, fine, maybe this wasn't the _best_ way to jog your memory, but—"

" 'The best way'? ' _The best way_ '?!" My lungs burned, and I coughed, trying not to lose my grip. "How _dare_ you reenact that little scene!"

He spit out water that had dripped down his face. "So you remember."

"I remember _you_ shoving me into a trunk and—"

"Do you remember _Gotham_? As it was?"

My muscles ached, and my legs burned just as much as my chest. " _You_ remember too?"

Jim hesitated, then nodded. "I remember."

"So I wasn't losing it."

"Not until today, when you started to forget." He spit out another droplet of water as if it were a troublesome piece of lint. "Again."

I softened, despite my shivering. "You said that earlier."

"Yeah." He looked down the length of dock. "Can we get out of here?"

" _Tch_. _You're_ the one who wanted to go for a _dip_."

"So…leave you in here, then?" He flashed me a grin.

"My leg is cramped, no thanks to you."

"Would you prefer to have forgotten again?" At once, I felt a small warmth on my back. His hand had retained some heat, despite the chill of the harbor. He guided me along the fender toward a docked boat, presumably to use it as footing to climb out of this disgusting, cold drink. "I'd already tried everything else. It never worked."

My hand slipped, and he caught me before I sunk down again. "I'm a good swimmer, Jim Gordon. You didn't know that before dunking me the first time."

"Well you're not very good at it now."

"Because my head's doing most of the swimming."

He chuckled. "I didn't know your sense of humor came sass-free."

"Maybe if you stayed in this water, yours wouldn't be so _dry_."

"I take it back."

He gripped the thick rope tied to the dock and pulled himself out with some ease. _Show off_. He lent me a hand, and my ascent was far more awkward. I stumbled, and caught myself on his chest. Any worse, and we'd have ended up in one of those accidental embraces that begin so many TV romances.

I looked up at him. "How many times have we done this dance, old friend?"

"Shot at each other?"

I was not in the mood for his jokes. "Gotten this far, only to have me forget?"

"This is the third time. Guess we were about to start on the fourth."

"Well, third time's a charm."

We slopped to the car and leaned on the hood. The warmth of the engine drew a relieved sigh from my chest. Jim pulled off his coat and lay it on the hood, and I did the same. When I finished pressing most of the wrinkles from it, I looked up to find Jim squeezing the water from his collared shirt, wearing nothing but his undergarments: a tank, boxer shorts, and socks. He looked like an advertisement, or would if his hair weren't soaked and falling out of place. I maintained more modesty.

"What?" he said. "You really want to sit in the car in soaking wet clothes?"

I ignored him. He could've stopped somewhere for towels if he'd cared. "What are you going to do with Ed?"

"I'm not going to kill him."

"Maybe you should."

"So you remember that too?"

" _Yes_ ," I snarled. "I remember that _too_. Along with…some other things."

He unfurled his twisted shirt and gave it a few sharp _snaps_ before putting it back on. I tried squeezing my clothes against my skin to remove the water. It didn't work. I put the car between us to undress, and he gave me privacy.

"By other things, you mean the fact that you almost went home with Ed tonight."

"I would do no such thing."

"But the other you would have?"

My nostrils flared as I scrunched my soaked shirt. "No, _neither_ me would have done what you imply." I feared removing my shoes, knowing what nightmares awaited my feet on this dock. I'm surprised my shoes had stayed on. I returned to the squarish hood of the car, mostly re-dressed and still wetter than I liked, and sat beside Jim, who'd returned himself to his pants. We dumped the water from our shoes and wrung out our socks.

"I didn't know you and Ed had a thing," Jim said. We set our shoes beside us. "How'd it get so bad, really?"

"It never got to be a 'thing.' He met a very off woman who looked like the other woman he'd dated-slash-strangled, so I saved him the heartache of killing her and did it for him." I shrugged. "He didn't appreciate that."

"Did you just confess to murdering an innocent woman?"

"They knew each other for like _two days_ and were seconds away from running down the aisle. I _had_ to do _something_."

He let out a guttural groan. "Damn it, Oswald, you can't just _kill_ people."

"She was dangerous for him, and I was a much better…anyway, I've already paid for the error of my ways, _Jim_."

"At someone else's expense."

"Let's not forget the debt you collected for me, Jim Gordon."

He turned toward me with a glare. "At least we're back to being honest with each other."

"I have _always_ been honest with you, old friend." I shot forward. "Can't say you've been the same way with me."

He grumbled and put his shoes back on, without the socks. "Get in the car. I'm taking you home."

"Forget it. Living with your ex is a _nightmare_. She's too…caring."

"Home with me."

"Oh." We stared at each other for a moment. My mind was still hazy with each life I'd lived, and I was thankful to Jim for what he'd done for me, though his execution was sloppy and nearly traumatizing. "I take it you live in my father's house."

"It's a nice place."

"Is Zsasz there?"

"No. He's a barista at a place near Kyle Corp."

I cackled. "I must see this."

"Can't risk someone like him remembering this. Not yet."

"Zsasz is a professional. It might be worth it."

Jim shook his head. "No."

"The longer you keep Ed locked up, the better his chances are of remembering."

"I'm not convinced Ed isn't part of this."

I didn't want to consider it. I still recalled our kiss. "What if he isn't?"

"You just said you wanted to kill him."

"I know…but…he seems just as duped as we were."

"Then that's where Barbara's info comes in." He broke our gaze and slid off the car. "Let's get out of here. We've got a lot to cover."

* * *

I sipped the spiced wine he'd had prepared for us. A far cry from the bottles of cheap whiskey that kept him company in our reality, or the cocktails sipped in his club. I would've preferred the whiskey.

The house was…different than I expected. Arranged differently than I preferred. Jim sat at an appropriate distance, in the chair across from the sofa I occupied. We were much drier, in nightclothes and robes, though his choice of pajamas were too blue-collar for my taste. Still, his tee hung loosely on my shoulders, and smelled of him, with traces of his cologne. It was comforting, despite the uneasiness of the situation.

I still glared at him. He deserved worse for exploiting a nearly traumatic memory. Just because I'd appreciated the gesture the first time, didn't mean I wanted a repeat.

"I'm sorry, Oswald," he said. He sipped the wine too, and seemed just as unhappy with it. Part of his _cover_ , I suppose, to indulge in things that seem finer to the masses.

"And for lying to me? I ask again, when have we ever been dishonest with each other?"

"Plenty of times."

"Not when it counted."

"I was waiting for the right moment." He sipped the wine with the slightest cringe.

"I could've told you that waiting for the right moment never works out, Jim."

"Maybe when it comes to romance, but not with this. I had to be sure it was worth bringing you in again, but I couldn't risk you triggering any of Barbara's memories."

"So naturally, as her ex…what was it, boyfriend? Fiancé? Doesn't matter. You thought it best to try and goad her into giving you information."

"Couldn't be helped. That painting's the key."

"Is it? How could a defaced portrait be the key to resetting our lives, hm?"

"Because every time I get close to it, it moves. Like it's been protected."

"It moves? It just gets up, sprouts legs, and moves? Really, Jim, I think you ought to know that nothing is so _divine_."

"I mean it gets moved by others, or vanishes and re-appears. That's why I needed Barbara's records. I know she has it now, but I needed to know where it came from, and where it could move next."

"I know the painter. I posed for him, remember. We can suss him out."

"It's not your guy. It's mine."

I laughed. "The thought of you posing for a portrait…"

"Not my artist. My partner. Bullock."

I nearly choked on my disgusting wine. "Bullock? A painter? How _droll_."

"He's in the dark about this more than we are. He doesn't even remember working on it, which makes sense. Seems like a cruel joke. Someone planned this well."

"Then I suppose it _must_ be Ed. You should've seen the lengths he went to just to enact his vengeance. Far worse than the time I—" I sipped the nasty drink. "Never mind."

He sighed. "What now?"

"Just…the means by which I acquired this house. Tell me, what was your false memory of the experience?"

He shrugged. "I inherited it. Didn't you?"

How boring. Not one tidbit on his family, no matter how false their portrayal in Oz? "I should have," I remarked. "But I discovered I had a wicked step-mother, and I, having been her Cinderella for too long, discovered a glass slipper. Or a glass container of poison."

"You poisoned her."

"I made her a roast."

"A poisoned roast."

I smirked. "Not so much, really."

"What then?"

"She thought she had eaten her children." The perfect beat to habitually sip wine. Only I remembered I didn't want to this time. "It was laughable."

His mouth curled in disgust. "You _cooked_ people?"

"No, no. It was beef. I only told her it wasn't. I'd always heard humans looked like chicken when they were cooked, so I don't know how she was fooled."

"It's the taste, and no."

"Oh, are you the expert on people eating? Should I be worried?"

He shuddered. "No." He sipped the wine, perhaps this time to taste something less offensive. C'est la vie, Jim Gordon. "Let's discuss something other than one of your many murders."

I grinned at him. "It must be frustrating, being unable to arrest me."

"There's a lot that's frustrating about you."

"Such as?"

"That answer's classified."

"Fine. What about Barbara? You said her part in this was over. What happens when she suddenly remembers how in _love_ you once were? And the mess that naturally followed? Hm? What then?"

He shrugged his brows. "As if kissing Ed wouldn't remind him of how you felt?"

The fond memory of a connection built on lies had no problem standing beside the wrath I felt for being toyed with and shot in the stomach. Now I was the one who wanted to swallow something much less offensive. At least the disagreeable taste would provide a distraction. "Jealous?"

Jim grimaced. "No, but maybe we shouldn't remind him that shooting you didn't take." He sipped his wine, and grimaced again.

"Enough," I said, setting down my wine. I headed for the bookshelf in the corner, where I hoped a hidden bottle of whiskey sat. It did. Some things here did not change after all. I removed it and sat beside Jim, swapping his wine for the bottle of fine whiskey. "Here."

"A man after my own heart," he quipped.

I scanned him. "Is that something you'd—" My phone lit up with a delightful chime. I grit my teeth. "Pardon me, old friend."

"Barbara?"

I nodded and picked up the phone. "She's wondering where I am. She'll be thrilled to know, I'm sure."

"So don't tell her."

I read the text. Lovely. "She's at the club." I sighed, and gestured with my hand for the whiskey. Jim passed it along when Barbara's next text came through. "Just lovely."

"Any chance she knows you stole that info?"

"No. One can only hope she doesn't spot Ed while she's there."

Jim picked up his own phone. "I'll check in and make sure they're keeping him safe."

"Secure, you mean."

"Sure."

Jim made his call while my thumbs typed furiously. Then the text messages from Butch rolled in. He was coming to meet her. I showed Jim that particular conversation and he rolled his eyes. When he finished putting out the fire on his end, Barbara called me. I held up a finger to my lips and answered.

"What now, Barbara?"

 _"_ _Are you two sleeping together?"_

"Don't be ridiculous," I said, under Jim's studious gaze. He looked quite handsome, even without all that product in his hair. "You know I—"

 _"_ _Actually, I know for a_ fact _that you make exceptions."_

I gaped in horror, and when Jim prompted me for a silent answer, I mouthed, _Did I sleep with Barbara?_ Jim passed me the whiskey. "I'm not sure we're talking about the same thing."

She growled a little then corrected herself. _"I'm talking about how many times you've looked the other way with criminals. What did you think I was talking about?"_

After her other self had outed me to Ed, why would it be implausible that Oz-Barbara was being gray-phobic? "Forget it. I'm not doing what you think I'm doing."

Jim raised his brows, asking me what she was saying. I shook my head while half-listening to her tirade.

"I'm alright Barbara, you don't have to worry about me."

 _"_ _Of all the people to fall for, Penguin, why him?"_

"I'm not—" Jim was still looking at me. I stared back. "I'm not doing what you think."

 _"_ _I have a bad feeling about him, Os."_ Her tone softened. _"It's more than just who he is. He's going to break your heart. I just know it."_

I bit my tongue on the reply I wanted to give, lest it spark any memories. "He won't."

 _"_ _So you_ are _with him."_

Outfoxed. Damn her. "I'll be home tomorrow. Good night, Barbara."

She groaned and hung up.

Jim took a long sip of whiskey before passing it on. "She's come to a few interesting conclusions, hasn't she."

"She seems to think we're sleeping together. I suppose that's better than her realizing what's actually going on and having her screw this up."

"We can't lose that painting again."

"Why is it so important? Art moves, you know. Rich people _love_ to pretend they understand it."

He sighed. "I wasn't using hyperbole before. I literally saw it vanish before my eyes. I touched it, and it was suddenly gone."

"Were you high?"

He shook his head in disgust. "No."

"Drunk?"

"No."

"Concussed in some way?"

"No."

"I don't understand."

"Neither do I, but I know what happened, and I'm not letting a lead like that go." He sipped the whiskey. "So, you and Barbara, huh?"

"No, _that_ was a misunderstanding, thank _god_."

He stared ahead, the whiskey bottle in his lap. "Let her think whatever she wants. The more we try to correct her, the more we risk slipping up."

My face warmed. "Are you suggesting a _fake relationship_ , old friend?"

"That'd just be pushing in the other direction. I'm saying we let it be."

"Good. Of course." I pondered the many sips we'd partaken in, and the growing pang in my chest. I wanted to touch the curve of his jaw. "Excuse me, old friend, but I think it's time we call it a night."

He replied with a slow nod. "Good night, Oswald."


	8. i put a spell on you

chapter 8: i put a spell on you

* * *

"Changed your mind on Nygma, huh?"

I looked up from my work and glared at Butch. "None of your business."

"So it was _him_ you were with, not Gordon?"

My eyes widened. "Would you keep your voice _down_?"

"I don't get it." Butch shuffled a bit as he settled into his desk. "Why not just tell us the truth?"

"Perhaps because neither of you like Ed very much."

"When did we say that?"

Interesting. Had Oz re-infiltrated their minds recently too? This could be advantageous, at least with regard to the Barbara situation. "It was just a sense I got. Over-protective friends, perhaps."

"Yeah, maybe. Anyway, glad to hear things are finally looking up for you two."

"Butch, my loyal, yet _intrusive_ partner, you nearly missed role call this morning, yet you don't see me grilling _you_ about where _you've_ been and _whom_ you were with."

"Point taken. Anyway, you oughta pick up that file from him directly."

"What file, and why do we keep leaving all of our work with the ME?"

Butch snickered and waved me off. I sighed and headed for Ed's office. Any opportunity to sneak away and investigate his role in this nonsense could not be passed.

"Knock knock," I said at Ed's door.

He looked up from his work—a file, not a body—and grinned. "Oswald. So good to see you."

"Good to see you too." I feigned caring about eavesdroppers, and stepped inside, closing the door behind me. I mustered up the will to embrace him. "I was so relieved my efforts with Gordon ensured your safe release. What happened?"

"Nothing. I sat there in misery for a while until they let me go."

"And you're okay enough to work?" I pulled back slightly. "Surely you need more rest. Let me take you home."

"No, I'm fine. I like to do work. It keeps my brain busy."

His eyes settled on mine. I recalled every other time I'd been this close to Ed. The time I realized I was in love with him. When we nearly connected on the sofa at home. My home. Sometimes, it was hard to think of it as home when he wasn't there.

"To be honest," he said, "knowing you were out there, working to protect me, kept me calm. I think it would've stayed with me longer if you hadn't gotten things under control."

"I wasn't going to leave you behind. Do you want my help reporting it?"

He shook his head. "No. Maybe. I'm still thinking about it."

I placed my palm on his jaw. Admittedly, not part of the ruse. Some part of Oz connived with our past to make this happen. Was my old life, with all that pain, worth it? "Let me make you dinner. At your place, where it's more comfortable. I have experience cooking for others."

"I would like that very much," he said. "Would it be inappropriate to kiss you? Right now, I mean, here at work? On the clock?"

"I don't care about clocks."

Not my best sentence. He found it adorable, and leaned in to kiss me. I sank into it, matching it to every time I had imagined this very act between us. Warm, comfortable, _perfect_. We parted, only to decide with a glance that it needed to happen again, and again, we were interrupted. At least the brute who interrupted us this time did so with a knock.

"Sorry to break the magic here," said Butch, poking his head through the door, "but we gotta go, Os."

"Tonight?" Ed said to me. "I'll text you my address."

I had a feeling I didn't need it. That would present a problem with our little recon mission if he lived in the same studio. "Tonight. See you then."

* * *

Sadly, this was Ed's old building, and, when I arrived to a cheery, casually dressed Ed, I saw that the apartment was roughly the same. No upgrade for him, unless you counted the ambience, which was decidedly lighter, and was missing the neon glow from outside. I hated that glow when I'd stayed here. Oz had been merciful with its brushstrokes in this place.

"Welcome, Oswald," he said. "Let me help you with that." He took the tote bag from my hand and brought it to the counter. "Pizza?"

"Guilty," I said. "I might've thought it'd be better to work _together_ on dinner. What's more fun than make-your-own pizza?" Truthfully, any chance to step away for a moment to snoop worked for me. Sauce was a messy thing. Would be terrible to splash some on his shirt. I could only hope he wouldn't see through the flimsy as-seen-on-TV ploy.

We unpacked the bag and pre-heated the oven. I reached for a drawer, knowing that this was where I would find what we needed to start, then hesitated. My Oz-self hadn't been here before. "May I? I wouldn't want you doing _all_ the prep work by yourself."

"Of course," he smiled.

I gave myself a few moments with each search, pretending I didn't know where things were stored. A good cover for snooping, though I wished evidence would make itself known in the kitchen. That would make my job a little easier.

"Bathroom?" I asked.

"That way," he said. "I'll wash the peppers."

I excused myself and immediately texted Jim an update.

 **Me:** Nothing yet. You're better at this.

 **Old Friend:** _New phone, who's this?_

 **Me:** Funny.

 **Old Friend:** _You know how to do this._

 **Old Friend:** _Keep going. Call me if 911._

 **Old Friend:** _Don't get lost._

No evidence in the bathroom, either. Just my favorite towel, the soft one that never left lint on your skin. I returned to find Ed had lined up the peppers in a rainbow on the cutting board.

"Rings? Diced? I'm a fan of rings, but I'll do whatever you want."

I decided I wanted to be the one holding the chef's knife. I took over. "Rings it is!"

A beeping sounded. "Oven's ready," Ed said.

We made our pizzas between smiles and work chatter. I'd forgotten about the sauce, but recalled an even better distraction. We put our pizzas in the oven and set the timer. Ten minutes would suffice. I knew the apartment well.

"Is that a piano on the wall?" I asked.

"Indeed! Do you play?"

"Once upon a time. You?"

He curled his fist in excitement. "Yes, absolutely! Here, let me play something."

"Mind if I set the table while you do?"

"Are you alright doing all that work by yourself while I'm playing?"

"I don't subscribe to that whole 'art and performance' aren't work myth. Play away. After all, I _want_ to do this for you, and I'd love to hear you play."

He clasped his hands together. "Okay, let me play you my favorite tune, or—no, how about my _other_ favorite. Actually, we have time, I'll play both."

"Please do."

He scurried over to the piano and played an old standard, while I quickly set the table, using the extra time to sniff about the place. My knowledge of the apartment came in handy, yet I remained empty-handed. Nothing in plain sight, and nothing in plain sight that pointed to something _out_ of sight. I texted Jim.

 **Me:** I don't think we're right about this.

 **Old Friend:** _Are you sure?_

 **Me:** He's being too sweet.

 **Old Friend:** _Keep looking._

I couldn't. Ed had begun playing the same song we had first sung together at this very piano, and I joined his side. The minutes flew, and when he stood from the bench, our eyes met again, as did our lips. This was a dream, the first real good dream I'd had in a long time.

"I'm sorry," he said over the beeping timer, "I hope the pizza isn't burning."

"Let's check."

Our meal came out just fine. We sat, poured un-spiced (and therefore, palatable) glasses of wine for each other, and dined. He held my hand many times across the table, and I his. I didn't bother with my mission. What mission? My Ed was back. That's all that mattered. Was it wrong to lie to him about who I was? Perhaps. Or was I even that person from Gotham anymore? Did it matter?

We cleared our plates together, washed and dried them together, and moved to the sofa, together.

I took his hand again, and looked into his eyes. "Ed, I'm so glad we did this."

"I…I am too, Oswald." He squeezed, and I took that as a sign to share another moment of affection, but then he hesitated. "I…and I can't do this, I'm sorry, it isn't right."

I blinked at him. "What?"

He stood, and paced nervously. I watched with horror. Was it happening again? Was something awful going to come between us _again_?

"I know you still love me, Oswald, and that's not right. Not after I shot you—"

I jumped from my seat. "You _remember_?" I grabbed him by the shirt. "Ed, you _lied_ to me!"

"I know, and I can't do this to you again!"

I funneled the urge to hit him into the strength of my grip. I shoved him down into his seat. "You _lied_ to me, Ed!"

"And you lied too! You remembered _exactly_ where everything is here, but Detective Cobblepot has never been here before!"

I snarled in his face. "At least I'm not _dead_!" I stood up again and tore my phone from my pocket. "I'm calling Jim."

"He remembers—?"

"— _Don't_ move!"

"I won't, I promise, Oswald, I won't, I'm sorry."

"Shut _up_ , Ed!"

I got Jim's voicemail greeting. I waited with growing disdain for the beep. "Jim, Ed's apartment, _now_. Emergency!" I hung up in a fury, glowering at Ed, who sat patiently and pencil-like beneath my stare. "How long have you remembered?"

"Not as long as you—"

" _How. Long._ "

"Since the club."

"Before or _after_ we kissed?"

"After."

I swallowed, trying to untie the knot lodged in my throat. It didn't work. "Was this all a ruse?"

"Was it a ruse for you?"

I paused. "You go first."

"No. That is, no, it wasn't a ruse for me."

"Then no."

Ed stood, and I pulled out my gun. Did he really think I wouldn't come armed? He sat back down. "If we want to be together, Oswald, then let's just _be_ together. This is better than the other world."

"Except that I know you _shot_ me."

" _You killed Isabella_."

" _I'm a criminal_. That's what I _do._ "

"Kill Isabellas?"

I shook my head. "Forget all of this. It doesn't matter! I'm not going to be with someone who wants to kill me when I have—other options!"

Edward's face fell flat. "I see."

"You see what?"

"Nothing. I'll await my fate. Detective Gordon will get what he wants."

 _Bang bang bang._

We jumped as Jim announced, "Oswald? Ed? Open up."

"Stay here," I said to Ed. I let Jim in. "That was quick."

"I was already on my way." His face set in determination, he secured the apartment, then looked at me with a worried anger. "You failed to answer my texts."

What texts? "I was a little busy."

"Hello, Detective Gordon," said Ed.

Jim stormed to Ed and loomed over him. "Explain," Jim growled. " _Now_."

Ed put up his hands. "Full disclaimer, I only _recently_ remembered our old lives."

" _How_ recently," said Jim.

"Recent enough, thanks to you," said Ed with a smile that turned into a sour frown. "I'd like to go back to how it was, thank you."

"I wouldn't," Jim said.

"Ah, but you haven't asked Oswald, have you?" Ed's eyes shifted back to me. Jim's did not. "Go on, Detective Gordon. _Ask him_."

I glowered at Ed, afraid to look at Jim. Lying to Jim felt wrong. It had always felt wrong.

Jim huffed through his nose. "It doesn't matter what Oswald wants, Ed. No one in Gotham consented to this." He pulled out a pair of zip ties and wrestled with Ed, ultimately binding his wrists. He lifted Ed to his feet. "We're leaving. Peacefully. Understand?"

"Understood, Detective."

I holstered my weapon and grabbed my cane before opening the door to let them out. "Right this way, gentlemen."


	9. the man behind the curtain

chapter 9: the man behind the curtain

* * *

We held Ed in the parlor, an investigation room far too cozy for our situation. Unbearable memories of sitting beside Ed in this very room flooded me, but I shunned them as the abominations they were. The only bright side was that they kept my mind from wandering back to Oz.

"I can't fully explain it," said Ed. "I don't remember _everything_. That's by design."

"Tell us what you _do_ remember, you conniving little _snake_!" I stayed the urge to wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze. My stomach pounded with pain and my mind switched focus.

"Oswald, I'd prefer to talk to you alone—"

"Well you won't be," said Jim. "I'm not giving you a chance to manipulate him any further. Anything you say'll be said in front of me."

Ed outstretched his bound hands. Jim had zip-tied his feet too, and he was stuck sitting on the sofa. "Oswald, please—"

I growled. "Talk, Ed!"

He relaxed his hands and stared at them in his lap for a moment. "Something amazing happened, Oswald. After you died."

"You have a radically different perspective than I do, but go on."

"I came back here. Or, there. But it's still _here_. Well, not what I'm about to talk about—"

"Ed!"

His fingers spread. "Your portrait, the one you had me painted in. I wanted to destroy it. I was so…distraught over what I'd done to you."

" _You_ were distraught?!" I lunged, but Jim caught me, placing one palm on my chest and the other on my back. I settled, but he stayed with me, a firm yet gentle reminder not to get out of control.

Ed tip-toed around the moment, then recommenced. "When I touched the painting, our faces, our _identities_ , melted away." He illustrated each moment with his hand gestures, clumsily made on account of the zip ties. "And I realized, this painting had been _blessed_! Not in the divine way—any fool could see that's _nonsense_ —but in the _strange_ way, the _Hugo Strange_ way! Why not make a reality where everything was as it should be? One where you and I are doing good in the world, and all the bad things just _go away_. You could forgive me, if you never remembered, but it would be better if _I_ never remembered…but you remembered…and I'm so sorry you—"

"Enough!" I lunged again, but Jim held me. "Take us back to our Gotham _now_."

Ed shook his head. "No, I'm afraid I won't do that, Oswald. You see _here_ , _he_ doesn't exist. The bad guy. The bad me. The other me. I gave him to someone much more _suitable_ to handling him."

I felt Jim tense. Residual love for Dr. Thompkins, no doubt.

"Ed, enough. Too many innocent people got caught in the crossfire here," Jim said.

"Innocent? Well, if you take into consideration every inaction in the face of injustice, every rude gesture, every nonexistent thank you—"

I grit my teeth. "What about the Isabellas and Miss Kringles of the world?"

"What about them? Ordinary citizens have been unharmed. I merely reorganized the players. And a few for fun. Have you seen Zsasz? He's an _exceptional_ barista—"

"Ed," said Jim, "stay on track. Tell us how you changed reality with a painting."

"I'm not telling you how to use it."

"I don't _care_ about using it."

Ed gave us a petulant smirk. "You're the detective—sorry, _de-tec-tives_ —why don't you figure it out?"

"Because," I said, releasing myself from Jim. I leaned on my cane and bent over to stare straight at Ed. "You and I are over, but there's a chance I'll keep you alive. Refuse to talk and–well, you know I prefer to just get the job _done_ instead of wasting time with riddles and puzzles. I'm sure I'll have no problem getting over the death of the man who desecrated my father's _corpse_."

"What?" Jim uttered.

"Oh yes, Jim. Ed certainly went all _out_ in his vengeance, when I was merely saving him from the guilt of seeing another Kringle die by his hand. Oops, guess my plan didn't work out after all, did it, Ed?"

"I get it Oswald," Ed said, "you don't have to do this."

"Then speak." I stepped back. "And do so quickly."

Ed nodded with reluctance. "I didn't understand what was happening at first. What we have here is the result of trial and error. I started to have fun, making things around Gotham better. I resurrected Miss Kringle, Isabella, even that lowlife Dougherty."

"Why?" asked Jim. "I get the innocents, but Dougherty?"

"In hindsight, it appears to be a miscalculation, but I needed to know if things would work out the same way. I don't think you'll be surprised to find out that I don't have many friends. What happened with Miss Kringle and that monster is what birthed the _other_ me. It was the only real thing I could observe, and see if the outcome was the same. Would Miss Kringle and I ever cross paths? Would she ever meet that pig?"

"You were testing fate," said Jim.

"I was testing to see if the concept had scientific merit, yes."

"Your lab rats are gone, Ed," I reminded him again.

"I told you, I'm _aware_ of that now." His nose and eyes pinked. Pain pulsed in my chest. "Everything seemed fine with those I'd saved, at first," Ed continued with a shaky tone, "but the world still wasn't perfect. I returned to the painting and thought of what I could change."

"How did you activate it?" said Jim.

"A touch, detective. It had become difficult to physically move, with a mind as active as mine. I had to be cautious. I realized that _he_ , the other me who did so many terrible things, had to go. I used the painting to shut him out, lock him in a mind I respected and admired. I chose one too good to be swayed by him, even if it weren't as intelligent as I am."

"Lee," Jim said with some gravel. I sighed; this was getting tiresome and I was quickly losing energy and patience.

"Yes, Dr. Thompkins. I'm sorry to say, I'd forgotten how similar our stories were, Detective Gordon. She was always a good friend. It was admittedly a bit of delicious irony that she hated you for the same reason I hated Oswald. Both of you thought you were saving us in killing those we loved." He grumbled. "You two were made for each other. So I put some safeguards in place, knowing how both of you operate. Sadly, you seem to have overcome those safeguards as a team. The other me would be furious, but without him, I am merely seeing this as a learning experience on what _not_ to do next time."

"There'll be no next time," I said. "Tell us what you mean by 'safeguards,' Ed, or I'll slam my cane through your eye and into that precious brain of yours."

His expression dropped. "I thought you loved me, Oswald."

I gripped my cane tighter. "Do you love—"

Jim stepped forward. "Ed, the safeguards. Part of why you made yourself forget?"

"It seemed like the only way to truly reset everything. An artist must know when to stop. Perhaps Oswald would care for me again here, and this time, I wouldn't…"

"Do you have any other safeguards? Why make Harvey Bullock the artist?"

"Because it's funny," he said with a laugh.

I pounded my cane on the floor. "How do we fix this problem you created, Ed?"

"I don't want it fixed."

I threw up a hand. "Well, I suppose that's more forthright than a _riddle_."

Ed narrowed his eyes. "The loftiest cedars I can eat, yet neither stomach nor mouth have I. I storm whenever I'm given meat; whenever I'm given drink I die. What am I?"

"Fire," said Jim immediately.

I smirked. "Thank you, Ed."

Ed uttered an irritated sound. "You'll have a heck of a time getting to it, _detectives_."

I let out a sigh of pity for him. "Oh, Ed. Did you forget I have unfettered access to it? You did make its current caretaker my best friend."

"Did you forget how much _you_ forgot after seeing it?" he said. I narrowed my eyes at him. He turned his smug grin toward Jim. "And did you forget how much your chase escalated? Has it vanished for you yet, Detective Gordon? It will. You can't touch it. Few can."

"Ha." I smirked. "So we get someone else to touch it for us. Forgive me. _torch_ it for us. Barbara's employees will be easy to bend."

"I accounted for that."

"So it only grants wishes to you," Jim said.

"Come now, detective, what good is a game without stakes?" Ed looked at me.

"I can use it," I said.

"If you can get to it without losing your mind." Ed giggled softly. "I caution against using the Perseus approach." He leaned forward, and with a dramatic whisper, added, "I accounted for that, too."

"I suppose we'll just have to burn down the gallery, then," I said triumphantly.

Ed shook his head in denial. "I gave you someone who loves you. Will you really give up the only best friend you've had over a painting?"

I bared my teeth. " _You_ were my best friend, Ed! _You_! And you threw it _all away_ for someone you knew for a _split second_!"

Ed swallowed. "We could still be something else, Oswald."

"You—!" Tears welled in my eyes. "You _shot_ me, Ed! You tried to _kill_ me!"

"I…" His chest shook. "I…did kill you. I…fished out your body from the water…and…" He took a deep breath. "I resurrected you."

I lifted my cane and swung—

Jim caught me. "No, Oswald!"

"He _killed_ me, Jim!" I bared my teeth at Ed. " _You killed me!_ " I fought against Jim as he wrangled me out of the room. He nodded to some goons down the hall. They took the cue. Now it was just us, alone in the kitchen, listening to Ed plea for a tape-free mouth. The pleas quieted.

I collapsed over the sink and wept.

"Stay here," Jim said softly, heading off to take care of the Ed situation. I wished to hear a gunshot. Instead I heard muffled orders and Jim's footsteps as he returned to my side.

I could neither steady my breath, nor cool the frustration that burned my face and neck. Ed's words had set me on fire, thrust daggers into my chest, and I was grief-stricken at my own death, whilst simultaneously…oh, who the _fuck_ cares about me anyway? No one.

Jim lay his hand on my shoulder.

I flinched. "Go away, Jim. I don't want you to see me like this."

"I've seen you at your worst before."

I shook my head, my face dripping into the sink. " _This_ is my worst."

"No," he said calmly, "this is just heartbreak. Come here."

I turned and he guided me into a consoling embrace, where I humiliated myself with my sobbing. How could he ever see me as a powerful and capable friend if he knew I collapsed at the mere thought of love lost? Nonetheless, he pulled me closer, his warm, protective hands against my back, his thumbs offering consoling strokes. He buried his face in my hair, and I took in his faint cologne and the indescribable scent of _him_ while listening to his heart beat in his chest.

I lifted my head to speak, though my throat was tight and a little raw. "Jim, I appreciate your kindness, but I don't deserve it."

"I don't care what you deserve right now." He moved a hand to cradle my head and I let myself rest against him again. I listened to the depths of his voice through his chest. "I won't leave you."

"You never do."

"Except that one time."

"You didn't leave me then, either."

"I needed a little convincing."

"Your attempts at humor aren't helping."

"No?" he said with the slightest hint of whimsy.

"Fine," I acquiesced. "Perhaps a little."

He gave me a tender squeeze in response and lowered his head to my shoulder.

I leaned my cheek against him. "If we destroy that painting, will I die?"

"I don't know."

"I'd been ready to die for others before…but…I don't want to die, Jim."

"I don't want you to either."

"Really?"

"Yes." He shifted, his face brushing against mine. An electric surge hit me in the chest, and I desired nothing more than to meet his eyes before the heat between us cooled. He shifted again, and this time I felt the slight bristle of growing stubble. "I have a plan," he said.

"We're burning down the gallery," I told him.

"Something a little less dangerous. Maybe." He drifted from me and called to a goon. "I need you to get some things." He snatched a nearby notepad and jotted down a quick list. "Quietly."

"Right now?" The goon seemed familiar, and not just because I'd seen him at the Commissioner.

"Yes, _now_. You know the drill."

"Yes, sir."

"That's it?" I said when we were alone again. "Just 'I have a plan' and 'let's go shopping'?"

"Yeah," said Jim, nonchalant. "Are you good to go?"

I took a breath and thought better of pursuing the absconding moment. I nodded. "I'll manage. I'm a survivor, old friend, just like you."

"Glad to hear it. Let's finish this."


	10. thick as thieves

chapter 10: thick as thieves

* * *

The car still smelled of the harbor, and the night was almost too cold to bear leaving a window open. The breeze carried in the scent of a storm, but the aroma was fleeting, and disappeared when we arrived at the Kean Gallery.

We staged in the gallery's loading zone, an expanse of pavement off an alley. _Delightful_. The alley was a luxury alley, rare in Gotham, but then again, this was Oz, and its wizard Ed had no tolerance for the grime of home.

I stared at the backside of the gallery, imagining its glorious demise. "My plan is safer."

Jim rooted through the trunk. "Not for everyone."

"Hand me the gas can." I turned and watched him ready our ear pieces. "We'll make this quick."

"There's no way to assure the painting will go, and there's no way I'm risking people's lives for this."

I huffed. "I'm sure Ed 'accounted for that' too. He was so certain you could beat his game, so he set this trap. One last middle finger. He knows you're too _virtuous_ to do what it takes. That's why it's the best option."

He stopped mid-preparation. " _No_ , Oswald! There's a security guard inside, and people in the surrounding buildings. We're _not_ burning the place down."

I clenched my teeth. "It's the _only_ way to make certain _you_ aren't compromised, Jim! _I'm_ the one with the _expendable_ mind. I'm…" My shoulders slumped. "I'm weaker than you, old friend. Time and time again, you've had to rescue me—"

He held my shoulder. "Oswald, the scales aren't as unbalanced as you think. We're doing it this way because I think you can do it. I _trust_ you to do it." He handed me an earpiece. "So let's do it."

"How do I do it," I said of the earpiece, more so to myself than Jim. He heard me anyhow, and gave me a demonstration. Using earpieces like this always seemed easier in movies. This one was uncomfortable, until Jim fixed it.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it." He handed me supplies, which I put into my pockets. "Let's go."

Rain drizzled on us as we headed to the back door. It was guarded by cameras I didn't care about, and secured by a keypad. Alarms were pesky, but next-day reviews of footage meant nothing when you were resetting a reality.

"You're sure you don't want to go with my plan? It's foolish to rely on my false memories to guide me through this labyrinth. Who knows what will happen?"

"You'll be fine."

"Easy for you to say. You're not wandering through a gallery with your most-used sense blocked."

"You don't have to put it on until you get to that room."

"Yes, but it's still painstaking."

"I'll be with you the whole time," he said, indicating our ear pieces. "I won't let you lose yourself, you hear me?"

"Yes, in stereo, actually."

"Sorry."

I punched in the security code with gloved hands. "Until we meet again, old friend."

He held open the door for me. "I'll be waiting."

I stepped into the dimmed gallery. It was eerie, observing these hallways and this art in improper light. Human-like sculptures became demons in the shadows, and every painting was drained of color, desaturated like the Gotham I called home. I headed for the special exhibit, and caught sight of the lone overnight security guard.

"Oswald!" the older gentleman said. "What did Ms. Kean forget this time?"

I held a finger to my lips and whispered, "Police business this time, Henry. Head home now, through the back. Can you do that, quietly?"

He nodded. "You don't need my help?"

"I need you to be _safe_. The car out back is hiding my partner while I sweep the area. Just go home, and don't call _anyone_ , not even Barbara." I recalled the name of his daughter. "Or Lily. The perp could be listening." I silently shushed him again. "Go, Henry. I'll reach you again when this is all over."

He nodded and headed for the back door.

"Jim," I murmured. "You heard that, right?"

 _"_ _On it,"_ he replied.

"I thought of locking him in Barbara's office, but figured you'd be upset if we had to go with Plan B. Aren't you proud?"

He didn't respond.

With security gone, I headed for the roped-off special exhibit. My nerves tingled and jittered as I drew nearer—what if my blindfold slipped mid-retrieval?

I passed my least favorite sculpture. "Jim?"

 _"_ _Yeah, Oswald?"_

"I remembered his daughter's name."

 _"_ _Whose?"_

"The security guard's."

 _"_ _Damn it. Ed wasn't lying."_

"That's why I'm telling you this."

 _"_ _I'm still here."_

I kept moving, eyes set forward. My peripheral vision caught a large canvas, dominated by the color red. It took on a crimson during the night shift. I stopped to gaze at its messy brushstrokes in the dim light.

"Have you ever been here, Jim?"

 _"_ _To the gallery?"_

"Yes."

 _"_ _Yeah. I have."_

"Did you see _Mother Number Nine_?"

 _"_ _What?"_

"It's an abstract piece, as big as a store window. Red, with slashes of blue and yellow. It's breathtaking. We should come back and see it."

 _"_ _Oswald, we won't be able to come back after this."_

I blinked rapidly. "Of course." I shook my head. My portrait. We were here for my portrait. "My mistake."

 _"_ _I'm coming in."_

"No, Jim! I can do this." I took several breaths to steel myself. "I can do this," I muttered. I pulled the blindfold from my pocket and tied it tightly over my eyes. I should have put it on sooner. It was already quite dark in here to begin with, but now it was pitch-black. The perfect protection against distraction.

I took my time, inching forward with cautious, exploratory steps, one hand out in front of me. "Your crew," I asked, trying to steady my pace, "who are they really?"

 _"_ _Mostly GCPD."_

That's why one seemed familiar. "Do you trust them?"

 _"_ _I trust them enough. I'm not worried about triggering memories as much with them."_

I was close to the special exhibit, according to my internal map. I remembered Barbara kicking out a visitor for littering on the floor in this section. Her resolve had been strong, even in spite of the visitor's aggravated response. I recalled threatening to arrest him. I forced the thought from my mind, and focused on Jim. "Do they act like cops sometimes?"

 _"_ _Sometimes."_

"What happens if they remember the awful things you made them do as King of Gotham?"

 _"_ _Not 'awful.' Necessary."_

My stomach dropped. "Jim?"

 _"_ _You idealists don't get what it takes to keep a city like this running."_

My heart raced. "Jim, what are you saying?" I picked up the pace and found the roped-off exhibit. I pushed the rope stands aside. "Jim, talk to me. _What are you saying_." I scurried forward, hoping no new obstructions had popped up since I was last here.

 _"_ _What's wrong?"_

"You're starting to forget, old friend."

 _"_ _I'm fine. You're doing great, Oswald,"_ Jim said. _"Just take deep breaths."_

"I _am_ taking deep breaths, Jim!" I hissed.

 _"_ _You sound like you're hyperventilating."_

Because my legs and my lungs couldn't keep up with his degrading memory! "Jim, don't you _dare_ leave me right now, you hear me?"

 _"_ _I'm_ not _going to leave you!"_

"We should've torched the—ow!"

 _"_ _Oswald?"_

I inhaled sharply. "I hit the wall. I should be in front of the painting."

 _"_ _Don't look at it."_

"I'm not stupid, Jim!"

 _"_ _We're creatures of habit, Oswald."_

"In more ways than one."

I reached forward with caution, seeking the edge of the frame. I followed it up the wall, and found it hung just a little too high to reach the top edge. Instead, I followed the frame along its bottom, and tested the painting's weight. I had to remove it from where it hung without risking it hitting my face, just in case. There was no way of knowing if skin contact made a difference, or if it had to be one's hands. Gotham's strangeness rarely had a logical explanation.

I set my cane beside my feet and lifted the cursed portrait properly. Heavy at this height, but not unmanageable. Smaller than I remembered it being. Hm. No sense in divining additional meaning from that. The portrait smacked the wall, probably leaving behind a nick, but who cares about a wall that might not exist again?

I set the painting against the wall and stared in its direction, unseeing.

"I'm about to start, Jim."

 _"_ _Just keep your mind clear and focus on what we talked about."_

"I'll be focused with less talking," I remarked.

It was too dangerous to reset Gotham on our own. We had no way of knowing whose lives were altered in what ways, and if we could even account for everyone within the painting's reach. All we could do is change Ed's little rules, the ones that safeguarded the painting from us. That would give us the power to destroy this painting and reverse Ed's hex for good.

"Jim," I said.

 _"_ _Yeah, Oswald? Did you do it?"_

"I'm thinking of how we should've just burned down the gallery again."

 _"_ _That's not good, that's not what we practiced."_

"I know it's not."

 _"_ _You can't use your thoughts to set a building on fire, especially when you're still inside it!"_

"What if Ed's lying? What if this _thing_ doesn't have any power, and he made us look like fools?"

 _"_ _It_ vanished _in front of me, Oswald. It_ has _powers. Who cares how silly we look; if we fail, we fail. We start over. We still have Ed in custody—captured, whatever."_

"I don't want to start over."

 _"_ _We won't start over. Just our investigation. We won't forget. I won't let that happen."_

"But—"

 _"_ _Just touch the damn painting Oswald."_

I nodded to myself as I discarded my gloves. I reached forward, thinking of Jim and I as a team, of us having permission to use the painting's power. I extended my reach, my fingers touching the painting's frame. I imagined us reaching out to touch the painting, of our fingers sliding down the canvas to feel every brushstroke against our fingertips. This portrait belonged to us. It's power belonged to us.

I felt a surge of ice through my arm and broke contact immediately. A gale broke free from my lungs, and I stepped back in horror, gasping for breath.

 _"_ _Oswald, are you okay?"_

"I…It's done, Jim. I'm…out of breath. Hold on." I inhaled several burning breaths through my nose and timed each exhalation.

 _"_ _Can you look at it?"_

"I said _hold on_!" I pulled off my blindfold, scrunching my eyes shut. "Okay, I'm going to look at it." I opened one eye. The portrait was there, and I still recalled the old Gotham. I beamed wildly and shoved my hands back into my gloves, then pulled large black trash bags from my pocket. I unfolded the bags and pulled them over each end of the portrait, in hopes of offering Jim and I additional protection against its power. I hoisted the secured painting under my arm and picked up my cane. "I'm heading out."

 _"_ _Great job, Oswald. You feeling okay?"_

"No unwanted memories here. You, old friend?"

 _"_ _Just fine. Could've used an umbrella, though."_

"I'm afraid I can't help you. I'm no longer in that business." The painting proved difficult to carry with one arm, and felt heavier the longer I carried it this way. "We _should_ have hired a thief. What's that scamp Bruce Wayne up to these days? I presume he and Ms. Kyle swapped too."

 _"_ _I wasn't getting Bruce involved in this."_

"Just me."

 _"_ _You can do it."_

"I _did_ do it. What'd I'd like to know is—ooph!"

 _"_ _Oswald?!"_

"Not to worry. Just a wall." Pain pulsed in my arm. Both it and the painting had absorbed the brunt of the impact when I turned a corner too sharply.

 _"_ _It's not a_ new _wall, right?"_

"No. Merely a _misjudged_ wall. It's dark in here." The temperature dropped, and I could now hear the rain. "I'm almost there. Feel free to get the door for me."

 _"_ _What's the code?"_

I grumbled and gave him the code. He laughed.

"What?" I scoffed.

 _"_ _That's Barbara's birthday."_

"I suppose it is, but I don't _care_ Jim." I made it to the door. "Just help me get out of here, please."

Jim opened the door. "Fancy seeing you here." He looked at the painting. "Need a hand?"

I happily passed him the portrait. My armpit ached where it had dug in. "This is the worst plan I've ever been part of. Ed must be laughing himself to death. That's not how I envisioned my vengeance." My feet slapped against the wet ground, and the rain picked up. Perhaps an umbrella _would_ have been prudent.

Jim rested the painting against the trunk of the car. "You did good, Oswald."

I leaned against the trunk, rubbing my arm. I hadn't realized how tense I'd been. Everything hurt. "You were right, Jim. I never would've gotten out of there on time."

"Now you understand why I didn't want to torch the place."

I gave him a remorseful smile. "It's nice to have friends who look out for you." I winced.

"Cramp?"

"Yes."

"Maybe it'll go away when we burn this."

"So let's burn it already."

He didn't move, but instead stared ahead blankly. Water droplets careened off every angle of his face. "It's not going to be like this when this is over."

"Of course," I uttered, glancing at the sky. "Planning on arresting me, Jim?"

"I should." He nodded to himself. "I really should, Oswald."

I peered at him curiously. "You want me to _convince_ you to arrest me?"

He shook his head, then looked at me. His eyes held sorrow. "This…was nice."

I smiled at him. "It _was_ nice."

He studied my face, and his eyes brightened. "Stay out of trouble when we get back."

I held my smile. "I don't know, Jim. There's still _plenty_ of trouble to get into _here_." I had enough dawdling. I reached for his hand. "Don't you think?"

He bit his lip and considered our hands. "You could be right."

I squeezed his hand and leaned into his him. He nuzzled me, then pressed his lips to my cheek, and I turned, meeting those lips with my own. We melted into each other, fingertips tracing wet lines into each other's jaws and hands falling on nestled hips. We nuzzled again, and the painting, the rain, the world, ceased to exist. It was only us and the warmth radiating between our melding bodies, and the exchange of unspoken words.

"We need to burn this," he said softly.

I nodded, still holding his hand. "I guess this is goodbye."

"No." He shook his head. "No, we'll see each other again."

"You heard him, Jim. I'm technically dead."

"You're not—"

"Jim." I kissed him quickly. "I'm…probably supposed to be. I haven't been a very good man. Every time I get close—" I shook my head and mustered up a smile. Enough whining. Whiners weren't survivors. No more extremes disguised as resolutions. I had to stop dawdling when it came to myself, too. "But maybe this is a second chance. I suppose I won't know until we burn this. Shall we?"

"It _is_ a second chance. And let's do it." He popped the trunk and handed me two lighters. "One for back up." He pulled out the gas can, then slipped on a pair of gloves—

Wait— _why_ was he not already wearing those?! How did I not notice?

"Jim, tell me you had those on earlier."

"Don't worry about it." He lifted the painting and brought it a safe distance away from the car. He stopped at a wet, but puddle-free section of concrete. "You coming?"

The bags were askew, as if they were curtains drawn aside to let in the sun. Had they always been askew? "Jim, even _I_ recognized the power of this thing. Please tell me you didn't mishandle it."

"You sound upset."

"I am upset! Who knows what fleeting thought could beat its wings into a hurricane? What if you fundamentally changed the rules of its destruction somehow? Found a loophole?"

"That's _exactly_ what I found," he said. "Now let's burn this." He freed the portrait from the bags.

I couldn't let him burn this without resetting whatever he did! "Jim, stop!" I hurried to his side. " _Stop, Jim!_ "

He gave me a stern look. " _No_. I am _not_ letting you die."

"What?" I grimaced in vexation. "Jim, there's no way to control what might happen."

"Ed controlled it, and so am I. Now hand me one of those lighters and step back. I don't want you to get hurt."

"Wait." He did so. I sighed in relief. I didn't know what to say. Maybe there was nothing to say that would change things. I had to accept it and move on.

"Oswald?"

I handed him a lighter and arched my brows. "Before we freeze in this rain."

He gave me a wry grin, and shrugged as he pocketed the lighter. "There are other alternatives."

"I have an idea."

"Involving whiskey and a fireplace?"

"Don't forget the cozy blanket."

We shared another smile before he opened the gas can.

The loud _clank_ of a metal latch sounded. Our heads perked up from our task. A chill ran down my back.

The back entrance to the gallery had opened. Out stepped Barbara and Butch, followed by _Ed_.

"You should be careful whom you hire, Jim," Barbara warned. "Their not as trustworthy as you think. The GCPD wasn't always known for its virtues."

"What the hell…?" Jim uttered.

"This is a good gig we got here, huh partner?" Butch yelled through the rain. "You sure you wanna end this?"

"Don't listen to them, Oswald," said Jim. "Once this burns, none of this will matter." He dumped gas over the painting.

"I wouldn't." Barbara pulled out a gun.

"That seems a little dangerous, Barbara," I said. "Whatever Ed told you, he's lying."

"Oh, he wasn't the one lying the whole time. Well, not until we found him at Jim's club." She bobbed one shoulder and fixed me with a wicked smile. " _Safeguards_ , Pengy."

I gave Ed a disgusted look. " _Them_? Ed, really?" This was no realization for them. Every touch, every platonic kiss from Barbara…was _fake_. Every pat on the back from Butch a lie. No wonder they'd hovered so much.

"Certain promises were made, Oswald," Ed said, lingering behind his bodyguards. "I still owed them for finding Isabella's killer. What better reward than to remember?"

"I don't mind bein' a cop," said Butch. "Kinda suits me and my talents. Plus, I've got my hand back." Now Butch drew a weapon. "You ain't so bad as a cop, either, Penguin. You know, I was actually kind rootin' for you two." He gestured between me and Ed.

False friends. For as much as _I_ detested Barbara, Oz-Barbara had become tolerable. Butch's partnership had felt like old times. I should have suspected further interference.

"You two were the _worst_!" I snapped. "The most _insufferable_ 'friends' anyone could have!" I added my gun to the mix. I doubted a shot would set the gas ablaze, and even then, Jim was clear of it. He was the one I cared for. The rest of these double-crossing fools could go straight to _hell_. "Any _time_ , Jim!"

"The lighter's not working."

"Fine then," I said. I pulled out the backup lighter. "We'll use mine."

"No!" Ed pushed between the others and dashed for the painting.

Too late. I struck my lighter and gave it a casual toss into the gasoline-drenched painting. The alley glowed a glorious orange in its light. Tributaries of fire snaked out from the source. Ed hopped between them, splashing water and gasoline, and reached for the painting. The fire licked his sleeve until it caught aflame.

"Sorry, Ed," I said.

A shot rang out, and I gasped.

I'd been shot in the stomach. I looked up, my legs shaking.

Barbara held the smoking gun.

I sank to my knees. Ed had come out of the flames and dropped to the pavement. Jim laid covering fire and ran to my side. Barbara and Butch ran.

"Oswald!" Jim swept his arms around me. "Oswald?"

I looked Jim in his frantic eyes and raised a bloodied hand to his face.

"Goodbye, old friend."


	11. reset

chapter 11: reset

* * *

It smelled like bandages and bourbon.

I groaned at my inability to immediately pull my blanket up to my nose.

"Hey there, sunshine," said Harvey Bullock. _Joy_. "You back with the living?"

I struggled to flutter my crusted eyes open. Was it morning? "Why are you here?"

"Because it's the hospital, I'm a cop, and you're sort of the mayor."

"Is this Gotham?"

"Yeah, it's Gotham."

I widened my eyes and adjusted to the brightness of the room. I seem to have been placed in the only clean room in the whole city. Or I was still in Oz. The bed wasn't as comfortable as I liked, and my feet were annoyingly warm. "Where's Barbara?"

"In the wind, along with that prick Gilzean and the asshole who did this to you."

"Barbara did this to me."

"Yeah, but that evidence kinda vanished, so we've gotta stick to Ed." Harvey patted my blanketed shin with a little too much force. "Tough break, Penguin. If it helps, I never liked the guy."

I sighed. "Does the whole world know?"

"Only people who watched your campaign on camera."

"Wonderful." My arms did, in fact, work. I rubbed my face. It did little to lift me from this anesthetized state. I grumbled. "I don't live with Barbara anymore."

"Uh…no." He scratched his salt-and-peppered beard. "That sounds like the premise for a sitcom."

"Last time I woke up from something like this I—never mind. I don't _care_. Where's Jim?"

"Getting shitty coffee from a machine that's probably never been cleaned." Harvey's head turned. "Speak of the devil."

"Oswald?" Jim passed off two coffees to Harvey, who eyed Jim warily. "How do you feel?"

"Like I was shot, Jim." I yawned. Even _that_ hurt. Lovely. "Did it work?"

His eyes smiled. "It worked."

"What…um…does he _have_ to be here?" I indicated Harvey with my eyes.

"I was locked in the body of a painter," Harvey said with disdain. "Had some fun, I admit, but this coffee is damn near ambrosia compared to the crap I could afford. So yes, I get to be here, doing normal cop stuff, getting filled in on what the hell happened."

"You remember it," I noted.

"Don't worry, Mr. Mayor," he said, accidentally gesturing too much and getting hot coffee on his sleeve. "Jim, you forget the lids?"

Jim grabbed the cups and set them down. "Sorry, Harv."

"As I was saying," Harvey flicked coffee on the floor, "don't worry, yada yada, it's a complete coincidence that I remembered what was going on just moments before things went _poof_ and returned back to normal. I went to this highfalutin café to meet someone from Craigslist about my work, next thing you know, me and Victor Zsasz are in a stock room forming a reluctant alliance to get the hell out of there."

"Zsasz remembers?" Jim asked.

" _Oh yeah_ , he remembers."

Jim let out a quiet laugh that left a smile on his face. "You're going to be fine, Oswald."

I looked up at him. The sun had streaked his hair with gold, and flecked his eyes with a brightness I wanted to see more often. I doubted I would, given the mess Ed had caused. "And you, Jim? What do you remember?"

He put his hand atop mine, and I turned my palm over until we were united.

" _Yeah_ , so I'm gonna go find some _lids_ ," said Harvey. "And mentally prepare a speech for the ride back to the precinct, FYI." He took his leave, closing the door to my private room on his way out.

"You want to know what I remember?" Jim asked.

I stared into his eyes. "Yes."

Jim leaned over and pressed his forehead to mine, before gracing me with a tender kiss.

"Everything."

End


End file.
